The Whistler's Whistle
by Emrys1411
Summary: "The world was made up of nothing but images for Neal at that moment. No sound. No words. No nothing." An explosion rips away Neal's hearing, leaving him deaf and it's not known whether he'll recover. Either way, he's terrified. No slash. On Hiatus.
1. Our Quiet Reality

**The Whistler's whistle.**

**Summary**: "The world was made up of nothing but images for Neal at that moment. No sound. No words. No nothing." A freak explosion rips away Neal's hearing, leaving him deaf and the thought of living in a silent world terrifies him more than anything else. Worried! Peter. Minor Neal-bashing.

**A/N**: There are builders in my house so I'm stuck in my bed room, alone and hungry, so this is what I made of a bad (but not too bad) slightly cabin-feverish situation! I hope you enjoy, but be warned, I'm not the most regular updater. Sometimes you get two chapters in three days, others, you may have to wait a week. Sorry if it's OCC or unrealistic, I've only just discovered this fandom and am still falling in love with Neal Caffrey (I mean, _come on_, who isn't?)

**Warning**: Swearing in later chapters (maybe).

**Disclaimer**: I don't own White Collar or its darling characters. Oh, how I wish I did…..

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><p><em>"Silence is the universal refuge, the sequel to all dull discourses and all foolish acts, a balm to our every chagrin, as welcome after satiety as after disappointment. "<em> ~Henry David Thoreau 

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><p>The world was different when it was silent. It looked different, it was like the people themselves moved in a whole new way, soundlessly, swiftly, almost as if Neal was in one of those colorless, silent movies with the cheery tune humming in the background as the people hurried and smiled and danced. The world was made up of nothing but images for Neal at that moment. No sound. No words. No nothing.<p>

All he could hear was loud, _obnoxious_ droning. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere, inside his head and the outside world. It was blaring and caused Neal's head to physically pound. Why couldn't anyone else hear it?

Neal found himself watching the cars, the lips of the people, moving up and down and in and out, the birds as they chirped and sung and yet, he couldn't _hear _them. Not really. He tried so hard to hear. He concentrated until his head hurt, his skull ached and ear buzzed with this sharp, twanging pain that seemed to flutter like a robin with its wings beating. At some moments, he barely noticed the pain and at others, it was all he could think about.

And he _hated_ it.

Though Neal found it hard to admit, impossible even, he was scared. Incredibly so.

He couldn't go through life not hearing. Not listening. That was what he did best. During his dazed, spaced out moment of self-pity, Neal didn't notice Peter's face in front of his until the older man shrugged of his own jacket and hung it limply around Neal's shoulders in a vain attempt to keep his CI warm until the ambulance came

As if that would make a difference.

The agent was saying something and Neal could tell, without hearing, that the man was speaking at a raised volume, hoping that something,_ anything _would get through to the young man. Neal would have given his left kidney to hear the grating sound of Peters voice once again.

"What?" Neal spoke, though it felt odd, strange as his cheeks flushed red at the thought that his words could sound very different to Peter.

Peter repeated himself, hands clasped around Neal's forearms, that look of worry and concern and fear etched across his face, deepening the lines that rested there. He looked old, Neal noted.

Neal focused and watched the mans chapped, bleeding lips and it was obvious he'd been gnawing on the bottom one. Caffrey wasn't the best, most capable lip reader, but it was all he had to go on and found himself making out some words, at least.

_Worry...soon...hospital...panic._

Oh, but Neal was panicking. What if he was deaf? Completely so? Forever?

He'd never hear music, the soft, delicate notes of the piano keys or the sound of the Peters Taurus rattling outside or Mozzie's voice or Elle's laugh or dogs barking or lawn mowers in summer time or the wind or the swoosh of the ocean in a storm.

Then Neal gasped, his chest constricting, his heart hammering at the thought of that. He clenched his fists tightly, ignoring the stinging of the burns on his palms or the pain as his finger nails broke his skin because he couldn't bear that. It couldn't happen.

He whimpered as his breath hitched in his throat and he choked, his lungs screaming, his head spinning.

_No._

Neal was too scared to even feel embarrassed at the stray tear that rolled silently down his cheek as he fought to hold the sobs at bay. He would not cry.

_No._

Neal snapped his eyes shut, taking some kind of comfort in the quietness and the darkness he found himself lost in. In there, he could pretend to be anywhere he wanted. He wasn't sat on some curb in downtown Manhattan, his ears blown, blood dried to the side of his pale face, knotted in his hair. No, he was lounging on a bench somewhere in southern France, basking in the warm sun like a cat does, not one care in the whole, damn world.

Except he wasn't. And Neal knew that too well.

Peter awkwardly looped one arm over the ex-con man's shoulders, drawing him just a tiny bit _closer_, unsure how to do the whole comforting-an-injured-friend-thing. But he tried his best and Neal was grateful.

He opened his eyes to slits, glancing at the pitiful expression upon Diana's face, upon Jones's as they watched him cry on some street like a child before he looked away, unable to stand their sympathy any longer.

It was his fault.

If only he'd run faster, been quicker, then he wouldn't have been so close when the building went up. He wouldn't have had his hearing ripped away and strung up, somewhere he couldn't reach it.

Another sob.

Another tear.

Another gently pat of reassurance from Peter.

Then the agent got out his phone and typed a message. That hadn't occurred to Neal yet.

The ex-con took the phone with shaking hands.

_Don't worry. They'll fix this. The ambulance is on its way._

It took him a moment to find his numb fingers before he replied, hesitantly, but secretly relieved to be able to communicate with some one again.

_What if they can't? _

_They will. I promise._

_I was so close. I can still feel the heat. It's too hot._

But Peter wouldn't let him shrug of the jacket.

_You're in shock, keep it on._

_I'm not in shock. I feel sick. _

_Just calm down, Neal. I'm here._

Neal breathed in through his nose and set his jaw firmly shut. He wasn't going to bring up his breakfast in front of a bunch of NYPD officers. He bet that they were already having a great time watching the con man, the famous _alleged_ forger, Neal Caffrey, cry in public.

Hold it together Neal, he repeated inside his head, the only place where any sound existed for him and he tried to imagine the wailing of the sirens, pretend he could hear the irritating whistling of a cop nearby.

But that's all it was; pretend.

In reality, everything was _quiet._

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><p>A review would be much appreciated!<p> 


	2. The Observer

The Whistler's Whistle

The Observer.

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><p><strong>AN**: Thank you so much for the amazing reviews and story/author alerts I recieved! I was just...wow, I didn't expect people to like this. I'm so sorry I couldn't reply individually to all who reviewed, my internet has been screwing me around for days. But I would like the say a special thanks to Iamhere123 who reasured me that Neal's thoughts and feeling aren't totally unrealistic. I have no experience of losing my hearing, so this is all a bit of guess, so thanks for your comment, I hope you can hang me up on any mistakes etc I may make. This chapter is a bit of a filler one, but I hope you like it regardless.

**Warning**: One strong use of swearing! If this bothers you, then please don't read. Also, I have no medical knowledge whatsoever, so any mistakes I've made are entirely my fault as Wiki told me everything.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing except my weird fetish for Neal-bashing.

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><p><em>"Monsters are real and ghosts are real too. They live inside us and sometimes...they win." -<em> Stephen King.

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><p>It had happened so quickly. One moment, everything fine, calm and Neal was safe. He was grinning that grin of his, that smile that made you smile whether you wanted to or not and he was <em>safe<em>.

There wasn't a mark on him, not a hair out of place, not a flicker of anything bad in his dazzling eyes that could control any man or woman with a flutter of dark eyelashes. Damn, even his skinny tie had remained straight throughout the entire ordeal and Peter wasn't surprised. That was just Neal.

Perfect until the end.

And then the end came in the form of a short, pale skinned man with device in his hand and an expression that Peter couldn't identify. But it was enough to make him shout; run forward while everyone else ran back, towards his CI, towards his partner, towards his _friend._

But life, being as it were, was moving too quickly for anyone, too quickly for Peter and he was too late to save Neal.

A man born and raised in Ohio with two cents to his name applied a tiny bit of pressure upon a button and the entire building went up in an enraged inferno of fire and smoke and vibrations and _noise_.

The wave of heat and sound tore Peter from his feet and he was thrown gracelessly onto the pavement, his vision foggy and distorted for a moment as he came to terms with what had just happened, his ears ringing ever so slightly but he wasn't close enough to be hurt badly. Not as close as Neal was.

It had been an instinctive series of movements from then on, that little voice inside his head commanding, tossing out orders that Peter obeyed instantly, impulsively because that's what you do for a friend;

_Get up. _

_Call Neal's name but don't wait for the answer because it's not going to come._

_Ignore the warnings and run into the smoke, all thoughts of personal safety discarded._

_Find Neal and bring him back._

Peter did all that. He held his blazer up over his mouth and stumbled through the hazy, opaque mist, one hand outstretched blindly, fingers curling as it got hotter.

He couldn't hear anything except this reverberating snarling sound as the blaze glowed and pulsed as it consumed everything in its path. Peter had to assume he was standing where Neal had been and with a spluttered cough of relief, his foot collided with that of his CI.

Neal was coiled up on the ground, his head tucked between his knees, his hands clenched feebly over his ears. His eyes were shut. Peter tried to pull the young man's arms away to get a better look at him, but he soon realised that through the thick blackness, he wouldn't be able to see.

It was a quick decision (one that his back sorely regretted later) that led him to putting one arm under Neal's bent knees and the other behind his back before hitching him up and off the scorching ground, holding him bridal style in a similar fashion to how he'd held Elle on their wedding day. Granted, Neal was a lot heavier that Elle and Peter was reluctant to admit he wasn't as robust as he once was.

He had heard Neal moan at the sudden movement but Peter blanked out the cries of pain and carried his friend to safety. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins and this meant he couldn't feel the way Neal moved weakly, his head shaking back and forth, his ears bleeding.

All he could think about, his only thought was too get Caffrey away from the fire.

But the damage had already done.

"Boss, the ambulance is about five minutes away."

Five minutes too far away. "Okay, thanks, Jones."

Peter returned his attention to Neal, who shuddered slightly under his grip, rocking forwards with the motion of the wind, like even that was enough to bowl him over.

It shocked the agent and physically hurt him to see Neal Caffrey, the _invincible_ Neal Caffrey, look so very vulnerable. Fragile. It wasn't right. The vivid pain and the fear radiating from him was just wrong on his young face and Peter found it hard to look at his friend because that made it more real.

"Neal." He spoke, hoping, believing that Neal must hear something.

No reaction. Not a tiny one to suggest Neal heard anything at all.

When Peter had first got him a safe distance away, he'd gently, nervously, lowered Neal to the ground and gasped at the appearance of his consultant. Pasty, milky white skin with smudged black under his red, blood shot eyes. There were smoke stains across his cheeks, stark against his complexion and he looked like a chimney sweep straight out a Victorian slum. There was crimson red trailing down the sides of his face, drying into his hair and soaking into his shirt and he gazed blankly at first, before slowly coming too.

With his hands clenched over his ears, he'd yelled, screeched at Peter, begging the older man to stop the pain, stop the buzzing in his ears and all the agent could do was look on and reassure him that it would stop. That was all he could do and it wasn't enough. Peter had locked Neal in a vice-like grip as he thrashed and hit the ground with his hands, slowly realising that there were no sounds reaching him.

Peter wasn't sure if Neal had hit his head on the ground, but his hair was drenched in his blood too, so he had to assume the worst. He was dizzy, nauseous and overly confused. A state, which again, was very foreign on Neal.

"Neal, look at me." Peter nudged the other in the ribs and he turned around, slowly. "How are you feeling?"

"I can't hear you, Peter!" Neal growled, though his frustration wasn't directed at his handler and they both knew that. "I can't hear anything!"

"I know, I know, buddy." Peter soothed and then realised no soft spoken words were going to make a difference to the con man.

"I don't know what you're saying." Neal's voice had dropped to a whisper and Peter barely heard it. "I don't understand….what if…"

Peter didn't bother getting his phone out again as he gasped with respite at the sight of the ambulance turning into the avenue. Neal didn't hear the sirens.

The paramedics rushed forwards, a determined look of professionalism as they worked and Neal became one of the many patients they treated on a day to day basis. He was strapped onto a gurney and was given a neck brace (at which he protested) but before he could go, a note was shoved into his hand and Neal stared woozily at Peter's scrawny handwriting.

_There's no room in the ambulance. I'll be at the hospital the moment you get there. You're going to be fine. Peter._

"It's been hours."

Peter had long since given up counting the amount of leaves on the dying pot plant in the corner of the waiting room. Most of them had browned and now lay on the sterile flooring of the waiting room as the plant withered and succumbed to the one thing the hospital reeked of; death. The dead, the dying or the nearly dead invaded every space.

Elle took his hand and squeezed it, hoping her touch could do something for both of them. Her husband's pain was her own, it always had been but over the last year, she'd come to love that con man and his sly ways. He never failed to make her smile.

"Hon, he was awake, he was talking." She didn't sound as confident as she hoped she did, "that's a good sign."

"Is it?" Peter murmured, dropping his head so it landed on her shoulder and her hand came up to his head, brushing the surely greying hair. "I've seen guys damage their ears in explosions, Elle. But Neal – he couldn't hear anything. He was completely-"

"Shh, Peter." Elizabeth winced as her breath caught in her throat. "He'll be fine."

Peter didn't want to fall apart, let anyone see how truly worried he was, but with Elizabeth, it was okay because she understood. She knew. She shared it.

They waited another half an hour and Peter downed four more cups of stale coffee which only heightened his nerves. Then a short, slight middle aged doctor strode through the double doors, clipboard in her hand, face set as a few relatives looked up in hope, then glanced down at their shoes again.

"Family of Neal Caffrey?"

The Burkes were on their feet instantly.

"That's us. How is he?"

"Are you his next of kin?"

Peter paused, struck dumb by that question.

"Yes, we are. I'm, Elizabeth Burke and this is my husband, Peter." Elle nodded. "Well?"

"Would you like to sit down?" The Doctor gestured to the plastics chairs and dropped onto one herself, her feet aching inside her heeled shoes.

Peter took a steadying breath and sat, his hand clasping his wife's.

"I'm Doctor Rosanna Paige," She smiled grimly, but offered no hand. "Would you like the good news or the bad news first?"

"The good news." Elle answered.

"Right, well, Neal suffered only a slight bump to the head and has no concussion, which is fortunate as that can cause numerous complications. Also, the burns to his hands and left arms are completely superficial."

"So there'll be no scaring?"

"No, none at all. They'll be healed in a few weeks. " Rosanna stopped and then looked down at her clipboard. Breaking bad news never got any easier, no matter how many times she had to do it. It was the one thing she hated about being a doctor, realising that no matter how hard she tried, there were some things she couldn't fix, some patients she had to let go.

Peter cut to the chase. He needed to know. "And the bad news? What about his hearing?"

"Ah yes. Neal was sent for tests after the MRI to determine the extent of the ear damage. We performed an audiogram to analyse what pitches, if any, that Neal could hear. Now, the shockwaves from the explosion severely perforated both of Neal's ear drums and also damaged his inner ear, which is very sensitive. This has led to total hearing loss and extreme tinnitus in both ears-"

"But will his hearing return? In time?"

"I can't answer that. It may return partially or not at all. The outcome…doesn't look hopeful."

Elle shuddered and buried her face in Peter's shoulders, desperate to escape for a moment the overwhelming sense of despair, not for herself, but for Neal. He didn't deserve any of this. Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, before straightening up. The Doctor still wasn't finished.

"What are his options now?"

"I'm going to refer Neal to Doctor Arnold; he's one of the best otologist's in the state. Neal is going to require a myringoplasty to try and repair his ear drums as best we can." Rosanna spoke gently, in a slight hushed tone, "It's done under a general anaesthetic and-"

Peter didn't even notice he was interrupting the woman, he was just sick of listening to a bunch of medical jargon that made no difference to Neal." Yes, but will it give him back his hearing?"

Rosanna blinked sympathetically.

"You have to accept Mr Burke, that Neal's total loss of hearing may be permanent."

There was a silence, a gap where no one said anything because there was nothing to say. No words could make it better. And apparently, it wasn't going to get better at all.

Peter swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. "Can we see him?"

"Of course." Doctor Paige nodded, "We'll discuss details later. What you like me to tell Neal what's going on? Or shall-"

"We'll do it. It's better that it comes from us."

Neal had been made to change into one of those radiant white, open backed hospital gowns, the same shade of ivory as everything else in the damn place.

What was it with white? White symbolised purity, innocence and Neal thought perhaps it was easier to spot dirt on a white background. Still, he hated the colour. It was bland. Draining. Depressing,

He held the thin, flimsy material close to his lithe body, a little self-conscious about the fact he was near enough naked as his dusty, ruined suit had been confiscated and put in a draw by a very burly nurse who didn't seem to grasp onto the fact that he couldn't hear her as she babbled away. That wouldn't usually have bothered Neal, the nakedness, he could think of worse scenarios than a bunch of doctors or even Peter, seeing him bare. But at that moment, the gown was all that separated him and the hospital bed he refused to lie down on.

_Rest._

Some nurse had written down for him with a shy smile. Even in his weak, rather pathetic state, she still gushed at the sight of Neal Caffrey. How the _hell_ could he rest? Just lie back and pretend it was all okay when it wasn't. He couldn't hear for_ fucks _sake, he was deaf, he was tired, he was aching, he was scared and he was _alone_.

It was all too much.

What if it was permanent? It could have been, at that moment, it felt like it.

No, Neal felt like an outsider. An observer in his own world, just watching life roll on by while he was locked outside, desperate the look in, ears pressed up against the glass. He could see the nurses giggling in the nurses' station, but the chirp, childish laughter was lost to him. Everything was lost to Neal and he'd only been trapped in the silence for no more than a few hours and it was still too much.

He tapped the metal railing at the end of the bed where he sat in the private room they'd allocated him.

Nothing.

Neal Caffrey then stood up and began fishing through the draws until he came across his blazer and dress trousers. He tugged them both on, his nose twinging at the dust and he sighed, feeling a little more like himself. The gown looked a little ridiculous, however.

Neal knew that no matter what sound he made, he wouldn't hear it, he couldn't actually be sure he'd even made it. Perhaps _everything_ was mute. When he slammed the draw shut, there was nothing.

When he switched the TV on, holding down the volume button until it was as high as it would go, there was still nothing.

Neal couldn't even hear himself scream.

But, apparently the nurses could as they came running in, alert, anxious and they wrestled him back into his bed, talking to each other over Neal as he went limp and allowed himself to be manhandled. He was too exhausted to care.

And then Peter was there, eyes dark at the sight of the white knuckled hands around his CI's wrist and he snapped something, an order, and Neal could tell by the nurses faces that it wasn't very pleasant.

Peter watched as the staff hurried from the room, heads low and taking Elle's hand, he slowly approached the bed. Neal had been cleaned up and looked considerably more _alive_ and less like the rugged corpse he'd resembled earlier. Deep rings had settled beneath his eyes and his dark hair flopped low over his forehead, making him look a lot younger than he deserved too but there was no trace of blood or bruising and the only bandages he had were around his hands.

Neal threw back the blankets as Peter settled on the edge of the bed and the agent felt his heart clench because somewhere deep in those blue, glistening eyes of Neal's, there was hope.

And Peter was about the smash it down.

"Peter, what's going on?" Neal sounded strange and he spoke awkwardly, pausing between every word because he was so unsure if the words in his head had translated properly on the way to his lips.

Peter Burke exchanged a glance with Elle, who nodded in understanding. Before leaving the room, she kissed the ex-con lightly on the cheek, remaining for a moment before she went to wait outside with the doctor.

"Okay Neal, no matter what I say, or what the doctor says, you could still recover from this. Don't lose hope just yet, okay?"

Neal frowned and shrugged lightly, completely at loss once again.

So Peter unscrewed the cap on his pen and began to write on the back of a receipt from Walmart, he wrote slowly, everything the doctor had said to him. He exchanged one last look with Neal before handing it over and so much was conveyed in that look, enough to tell Neal exactly what was coming.

_Doctor Paige said that both of your ear drums have been badly perforated and the inner ear was damaged. They need to perform an operation after you've seen an otologist's and after that, we'll know more. But Neal, you need to understand that you might never hear again. The best case scenario is that you'll regain some level of hearing, but it's not looking good. I'm sorry, Neal._

The note felt distant and Peter found he couldn't say anything to comfort his friend. That's what he was supposed to do. What use was he if he couldn't?

Neal crumpled the note up in his trembling fist, wincing as the bandage tugged at his burns and he closed his eyes, turning his head away. He would not cry again.

Despite the sudden hotness of the room and the way his entire body was overcome with this numbness, he still managed to inhale a shuddery breath.

He had known it was coming, he just _knew._ It was no surprise because he was Neal Caffrey. He wasn't _supposed_ to have a happy ending. Men like him just _didn't._

This was payback for all the wrong things he'd done in his life. Revenge.

Peter bit his lip and settled a hand on Neal's head as the younger man bit down hard on his knuckles and a single, stray tear worked its way down his cheek. But Neal didn't sob or weep. He just cried silently because it hurt too much to do anything else. Peter ran his fingers running through Neal's unruly hair in what he hoped was a reassuring rhythm.

He didn't expect a reaction.

And he didn't get one.

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><p><em>A stranger called this morning <em>  
><em>Dressed all in black and grey <em>  
><em>Put every sound into a bag <em>  
><em>And carried it away <em>

_The whistling of the kettle _  
><em>The turning of the lock <em>  
><em>The purring of the kitten <em>  
><em>The ticking of the clock <em>

_The popping of the toaster _  
><em>The crunching of the flakes <em>  
><em>When you spread the marmalade <em>  
><em>The scraping noise it makes <em>

_The hissing of the frying pan _  
><em>The ticking of the grill <em>  
><em>The bubbling of the bath tub <em>  
><em>As it starts to fill <em>

_The drumming of the raindrops _  
><em>On the window pane <em>  
><em>When you do the washing up <em>  
><em>The gurgle of the drain <em>

_The crying of the baby _  
><em>The squeaking of the chair <em>  
><em>The swishing of the curtain <em>  
><em>The creaking of the stair <em>

_A stranger called this morning _  
><em>He didn't leave his name <em>  
><em>Left us only silence <em>  
><em>Life will never be the same<em>

- Roger McGough

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><p>Please review! Also, do you want Neals deafness to be permanent or temporary? I'll take a vote!<p> 


	3. Piano Man

The Whistler's Whistle

The Piano Man.

**A/N:** Thank you for all of the reviews! I tried to reply to everyone, but I'm so sorry if I missed you out, it wasn't on purpose! I'm overwhelmed by the great feedback I'm getting, you guys are way too kind. I'm still undecided about which way this is heading, the votes were pretty even, but either way, I hope you all enjoy it. I wasn't sure about this chapter, but I hope you like reading it as much as I did writing it.

**Warning:** Angst-ness and probably lots of medical/geographical inaccuracies. Please don't grill me about any of these! I am looking for some sort of Beta.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

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><p><em>"The defects and faults of the mind are like wounds in the body; after all imaginable care has been taken to heal them up, still there will be a scar left behind<em>." -French writer François de la Rochefoucauld

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><p>Neal didn't sleep that night. Not at all. It's not like it wasn't peaceful or that there wasn't a certain <em>serenity<em> to the silence but by closing his eyes, Neal was truly cut off from the world. The world became a void and he was stuck between two places, waiting, expecting but never _knowing_ when every shadow moved or every door creaked. God, how he was tired and desperate for the release that sleep would give him but he refused to close his eyes except to blink. To do so was dangerous. Of course, he knew that confined to a hospital room was perhaps one of the safest places to be. But it wasn't where he wanted to be.

More than anything, he just wanted to go home and not have to face anyone at all.

Not Peter, not Elle and certainly not Mozzie.

Early morning light streamed in through the narrow cracks of the blinds, illuminating streaks of the linoleum floor and the shadows of dawn stretched and twisted, like they were dancing. Twirling.

Peter had left the night before, reluctantly and Neal was glad of it. He didn't want to look at the man and see the guilt, the concern etched across his features. That made it all worse, knowing that he was the cause of their pain, that he warranted it. It was because of this that there was no one to talk Neal out of discharging himself. He put his suit back on, facing the door so he could see if any one came near because knocking wouldn't have given _him_ a fair warning. He dusted of the jacket as best he could, ran a comb through his hair and made sure to keep away from his ears. Not that there was much else he could do to them.

The nurse at the station had called Doctor Paige and she had started scribbling down an extensive list of reasons why Neal shouldn't leave. She didn't get far. The young man waved her off and signed the release forms, his signature less perfect and flowing as it usually was and he could feel her gaze boring into him as he wrote.

He also knew she saw his hand shaking.

It was cold outside but it didn't bother Neal, in fact, he embraced the bitterness of the harsh breeze, enjoying the way it sliced and hacked into his skin, filling his being with this painful, yet stimulating sense of urgency.

He had to get out of this place and away from these people.

Far away from the white and the disinfectant and the sickness – he suddenly understood why Mozzie despised hospitals so much.

It was odd, unnerving, to say the least as he stumbled clumsily down the street away from the Lennox Hill Hospital, delving deeper in to the heart of Manhattan without the usual blare and racket and uproar he'd grown used too, come to love. The traffic moved soundlessly, slowly and the many business men swearing into their blackberries did so without a single word, there was no beeping of horns or singing of guitarists on street corners or…anything. Neal felt bewildered, like a deer caught in headlights at the sight of that huge, blue truck that killed it's mother, eyes wide, open, mouth agape as he staggered in confusion. The hushed stillness was overpowering and he reached blindly for the wall of a tower block, ground spinning on its axis and he swore he was locked in some kind of stupid snow globe. He was getting shoved off the sidewalk by people rushing, _always rushing. _New York, where you couldn't stop for breath.

A man glared.

A child's face lit up in laughter. How Neal longed to hear her laugh.

A woman tripped over her ridiculous heels, fell and cried out but Neal heard nothing besides the insistent buzzing leaving her lips.

A dog tied to a lamp post was jumping on its back legs, jaw snapping open and shut.

Open.

Shut.

Open.

Shut.

Then there was another man, a dirty one, scruffy and he got right in Neal's face.

Right up close so Caffrey could _smell_ the liquor on his breath, count the gaps in his teeth.

He was talking.

The CI swallowed anxiously and pushed himself off the wall, intending to side step around this man because he had no idea what he was going on about. But the man wasn't moving. Neal kept his head down and said what he hoped was, "excuse me" but this just irritated the man further.

He wasn't backing down.

Any normal day, Neal Caffrey would have retorted with some smart remark, embarrassed the man and strode on. But again, on any normal day, the man wouldn't have targeted Neal because Neal stood tall and proud and looked like a person who could defend himself.

But not this Neal Caffrey. He was feeble and pathetic and carried himself in that exact way, like he was clinging hopelessly onto life and sanity with a frail grip.

The con man thrust forward with his hands, a new found strength over taking all thoughts of reason and he rammed his elbow into the man's jaw and sent him tumbling _hard _against the pavement. Neal didn't wait to see if he was okay.

He just ran.

And he _couldn't_ look back.

Peter was angry. No, he was livid. Outraged. Fuming. Every damn word in the thesaurus listed under angry.

Neal was gone.

And they'd just let him go.

"Mr Burke. Neal is a consenting adult. It was his choice to-"

"Consenting? Have you seen the state he's in?" Peter hissed, one hand on his hip, the other waving wildly through the air in no particular direction. Rosanna Paige didn't shrink away or back down. She was used to rebellious patients and frantic family members. "He can't hear anything and you just let him walk! Anything could-"

"Mr Burke, I wouldn't have let Neal leave if I thought he was a danger to himself."

"What if he gets hurt? Walks out in front of a car? I can't get hold of him because he can't hear his phone and I removed his anklet!" Peter did notice the stares he was receiving in the middle of reception and Rosanna had tried to lead the FBI agent away, but was failing in that respect.

One of the nurses who had been attending to Neal cut in shyly "Oh, actually, Mr Caffrey left his phone and wallet."

Peter threw up his arms and rolled his eyes. "Oh, fantastic! This just gets better."

Peter had been quietly suggested to leave by the hospital security, who surprisingly weren't intimidated by his badge. He immediately rang Elizabeth, who listened patiently until his rant had finished before saying the one thing Peter himself should have thought of.

_Hun, this is Neal we're talking about. He's stubborn. He's not about to fall off the rails over something that isn't even certain yet._

"You're right. Of course you are." Peter rested his forehead against the Taurus steering wheel, inhaling a much needed, steadying breath. "I'm gonna go to Junes. He'll have to go home sooner or later."

_When he does, bring him back with you. _

"He's not going to agree to that, Elle."

_For Dinner, at least._

"Okay, I'll try. I love you, Hun."

_I love you too. _

Neal wasn't sure for how long he ran or how many avenues he put between himself and the guy in need of a dentist, but soon, far too soon, his lungs were so exhausted, he swore they were on the verge of bursting and becoming red ribbons within his chest. Red, jagged razor blade-like ribbons that sliced through everything inside, his muscles (which were on fire) and all the flesh and sinew beneath.

He didn't even know what he was running from. It couldn't have been one man that scared him so much, it was everything. He was literally running away from his problems, except it didn't work or help in the slightest. All it did was put him somewhere familiar, yet so out of reach and remind him of what he'd lost. It wasn't just his hearing.

It was his independence.

His freedom (which was in question anyway.)

His ability to listen to the people and the music and sounds of life that he loved.

He slowed to a steady pace, his heart beating precariously within his ribcage and he found himself glancing behind him every few seconds, searching for anything he couldn't hear coming. Or someone. Paranoia was playing a harsh game.

New York seemed like a foreign world to Neal, a place he wasn't welcome, a place where he didn't belong and didn't want to be. Caffrey wanted to be alone but at the same time, he was lost and needed someone to guide him back onto the path he'd strayed from, even if he didn't realise it.

He knew Peter would be worried about him. It was fast approaching midday and it was busy, or at least, in his bubble, the crowds seemed thicker and faster somehow, always moving and he found himself caught in the tide. He shouldn't have left the hospital. It felt like a good idea at the time, the one thing he could do in defiance.

Neal decided he was going to walk home, no matter how long it took or how many mute crowds he had to stagger through. The buzzing was getting worse, so much worse and once again, he sped forward. But this time, he didn't let himself look back.

Neal shouldn't have been and wasn't surprised to push open the door of his apartment, minus the clang of the lock, to find Agent Peter Burke sat alone at his table, a beer in hand and a look upon his face that made something inside of Neal wither and die. But a part of him said he shouldn't feel guilt. He had every reason to fly of the rails at that moment. Kate was dead. Fowler was free. He was deaf.

Frankly, Neal was coping quite well. Whether or not these feelings of clarity would last was an _entirely_ different and daunting matter.

The little, dark voice on his shoulder said "enjoy it while it lasts, because it certainly won't."

Peter put down his beer and stood up, his gaze running over the bedraggled form of Caffrey, eyes lingering on the beads of sweat on his forehead. Neal watched as Peter came closer, frustrated expression softening and he pointed to his lips, before speaking. The ex-con frowned quizzically but watched carefully and found himself subconsciously picking out words. That and everything else led Neal to decipher what was being said.

"Are you okay?"

Neal nodded without saying a word and brushed past the older man, rubbing at his eyes. His head was hurting.

He'd gone home because being outside in a familiar place that had suddenly become distant was worse than wondering aimlessly around his apartment. Besides, his headache was getting progressively more painful, like a tiny creature had taken up residence inside his skull with a sledge hammer.

A hand on his shoulder and suddenly he was facing Peter again, who held out his phone.

_Where have you been?_

Neal's expression darkened and he took a few moments before he felt himself speak. He could feel the vibrations of his throat, the air in his lung and he'd never noticed just how much went into talking.

"Nowhere."

He hoped he said it right and Peter rolled his eyes at that response and typed up a new message.

_Why did you discharge yourself from the hospital?_

Neal didn't answer properly, just shrugged and headed away.

Peter was feeling clueless. He had _no_ idea what was going through the young man's head. He didn't appear visibly upset and that was the problem. He seemed so calm and collected. Granted, Peter didn't want Neal falling apart but he wasn't _dealing_.

He seemed too 'okay'. In his position, he shouldn't have been.

"What am I….supposed to do now?"

Neal's voice was a monotone and lacked its usual character. It was emotionless. Peter winced as his consultant sat down and looked up at the man who'd suddenly become the unlikeliest of friends.

Peter didn't know how to reply to that. What was he meant to say? 'Cow boy up' just wasn't enough anymore.

Peter spotted a pad and pencil and chose to use that instead. He was a clumsy when it came to texting, it just took too long and writing seemed a bit less force. Feelings could be displayed through writing, but text, it was blank.

_Your appointment is with Doctor Arnolds on Monday. For now, you can come back to my place for the weekend and we'll work it out._

Blue eyes dulled. "I want to stay here."

The agent gritted his teeth and was about to protest when Neal cut him off. "The operation?"

_It takes a few hours. There's a chance it'll work. You might get some of your hearing back. Have faith Neal._

Neal snorted at that. Faith? What good did _faith_ ever do anyone?

He got up and shrugged of his top layers of clothing. They and he smelt of disinfectant.

"I'm going to go have a bath."

Neal didn't wait for a written answer.

Five minutes.

Fifteen.

Fifty.

An hour.

Peter waited. His gaze straying around the apartment, picking out the tiny details that made it look different from usual. The half-finished painting on the easel, colours bright, smooth lines represented everything and how it should have been. Neal had been okay, before all of this. Not perfect, not quite his usual sparky, eccentric self. But close enough.

And then _it_ had happened. June had come up for a little while, her brown eyes soft.

"Don't worry, Agent Burke, I'll look after him. Go home to your wife."

He knew she would, but that didn't make it any better.

Neal deliberately left the hot tap off. He didn't feel like the heat. The bath was deep and he grinded his teeth as he stepped into the freezing, ice cold water, goose bumps rising instantly. It was so cold that in some way it _hurt_, like the chill was seeping through his skin and working its way into his bones, chilling his skeleton.

He whipped his foot back out and then tested it again with his hand. Neal enjoyed the pain because he caused it.

He could _control_ it.

Soon enough, his entire, weakened body was immersed in the bath water, his breaths coming in wheezes, rapid and fleeting.

Before he'd left the hospital, a nurse had informed him not to put his head under water because he wasn't meant to get water inside his ears. It could disturb the swelling and hinder it going down.

Neal held him breath and let himself sink completely, his head joining the rest of his body beneath the mirrored surface, the nurses warning pushed far out of his mind.

The weekend had seemed everlasting. Neal found that his apartment just didn't seem quite right anymore. The gently clanging of the old, vintage piping was gone. He couldn't hear the scraping of his paint brush or the scratch of his charcoal anymore and that was one of the thing he loved about art. The sounds of the images.

Neal had reached for his iPod more than once and had eventually thrown it in frustration, before stuffing it in the draw. June had stayed with him all day Saturday, as had the Burkes but they didn't do anything. Neal found himself re-reading Nicholas Nickleby, not because it was his favourite book, but because he never read it and that seemed to fit perfectly with his life at that moment.

On Sunday, he didn't get out of bed until two in the afternoon. He wasn't tired, yet the deep circles underneath his eyes begged to differ but what to do once he got up made him stayed under the covers.

Mozzie still hadn't come, which made Neal refrain from getting out of bed _even_ more. Eventually, June had made him help her prepare dinner. She wasn't surprised when Neal ate not a single bite.

When Monday finally rolled on by, Neal got dressed in his best suit and recently cleaned Fedora. He pulled it down as far as it would go, so he could hide his eyes under the rim.

Ten forty was quickly approaching and Peter and Neal had been directed to the waiting room of the Manhattan Eye, Ear and Throat Institute. It was a modern room with beige wallpaper and solid oak furniture. The chair were a pale blue and arranged in a large circles, which didn't help when it came to avoiding other peoples gazes and in the centre of the waiting room, a pile of magazines, books and toys lay waiting for the nervous patients.

There were four square windows with a wonderful view of New York's tower blocks and a few pot plants with no flowers. There was also a piano.

Peter and Neal sat in the chairs closest to the window, trying to ignore the awkwardness that all waiting rooms seemed to be but Neal scarcely noticed. Obviously, the awkward silence was a seemingly permanent fixture for him. He watched, rather absently, a small child who couldn't have been more than six play with some kind of action figure at his mother's feet and Caffrey found a small smirk appear on his face as the action figure took a nose dive towards the carpet with enough force to make his head roll. The boy had little blue hearing aids and unlike most children, he made no sound as the toy crashed and died. His lips remained firmly shut.

Neal glanced at the clock once again, inwardly rolling his eyes as the minute hand seemed to remain fixed on one number. Peter was reading some magazine, beginning to slouch in his seat as the boredom and anxiety took its toll. He'd insisted on coming, not that Neal could really argue over paper, but he'd tried.

Caffrey himself wasn't nervous, not yet. He knew that the Otologist wasn't going to give him the direct answer he craved.

Was he ever going to hear again or not? Everything else was minor details.

Peter threw the magazine back in the rack and flicked Neal on the knee to get his attention.

_Coffee. _He mouthed (Neal had seen that word enough times to know it), gesturing towards the machine by the door. Neal shook his head, assuming the agent had asked if he wanted a cup. Peter patted his friend's thigh and got up, leaving Neal to look around the waiting room without being analysed.

Neal wasn't sure what drew him towards it, but he tried to ignore the urge, the impulse and yet, unconsciously he found himself getting up from his seat, stepping over the small boy and walking quickly towards the piano in the left hand corner of the room.

It was ironic really. An instrument in the room where few could enjoy it.

Well, Neal could still _feel_ the music, the vibrations as his hands pushed down on the keys. He tried each one, then many altogether, imagining the blare of notes it was supposed to be making and while he was doing this, it didn't occur to Neal that just because he couldn't hear it, that didn't mean the other people in the waiting room couldn't.

A hand clamped around his wrist and Neal jumped as Peters angry, rather embarrassed face appeared in his line of vision. He was saying something and Neal could tell he was whispering, growling because his lips barely moved and his teeth were bared slightly.

The ex-con man blinked in confusion and then registered the gazes he could feel coming from all directions and he looked around.

Everyone was looking at _him_. Some looked annoyed. Others grateful for a distraction. A couple appeared almost upset. Neal felt his cheeks burn, his entire body flushed with this intense, powerful surge of heat and he turned back to the piano, closing his eyes in humiliation.

Peter had released his wrist, sorry for such a quick reaction.

And that's when it occurred to Neal. He hadn't felt so stupid in such a long time.

"I'm sorry, Peter."

He hoped his voice was quiet enough for just the agent to hear and Peter sighed, tapped him on the arm, and sat down in the nearest chair, avoiding the gazes of the other patients and relatives.

But Neal was far too mortified to stand up and walk back to a seat and he knew his cheeks were a ruby red and his heart was thudding away at an irregular, panicked rate.

Neal did the only thing he could think to do to drag himself out of the hole he'd dug and he began to play, properly this time. It'd been a while since he'd last done it, but he found his fingers drifting over the keys at their own free will, lightly pressing down on the notes, the various tones playing beautifully inside his head, a tune of high pitches and dark ones and all the emotions the harmony could create. He didn't have to think. The music just came, as naturally as breathing and he watched his fingers dance, wishing that more than anything he could hear the melody he played.

Peter was by his side again, smiling, his eyes brighter than they had been in days and it was only then that movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he saw that others had wandered over and stood listening to his composition. The older woman who'd previously glowered at his 'playing' now stood behind him, eyes shining with unshed tears and her hand rested on the small boys head, who looked as lost as Neal felt.

He couldn't remember when he wrote it. It was on a happy day many years ago and once upon a time, just hearing it made everything a little bit sunnier.

But it just wasn't the same for Neal anymore.

He played on regardless.

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><p>"<em>You can't just have faith when the miracles happen, Dean. You have to have faith when they don't."<em> – Supernatural.

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><p>I hope this was okay. I know Neal seems okay sometimes then not so much, but I think his emotions would be a little bit over the place. Please review and tell me what you think. I don't mind constructive criticism, but no flames please!<p> 


	4. The Way The World Ends

The Whistler's Whistle

The way the world ends.

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed/read/favourite/put me on their alerts! You guys really inspire me to keep writing! I'm so glad you're enjoying it and I hope you like this chapter, but I promise, the next one will focus a lot more on Neal.

**Warnings**: Medical inaccuracies, maybe some spelling mistakes, but I won't apologise for my freaky British spelling ;)

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing hear except my own plot bunnies. As much as I with Neal Caffrey was my creation, he just isn't.

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><p><em>"This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper." -TS Elliot<em>

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><p>It had physically pained Peter when the receptionist called out Neal's name and he was forced to gently prise the ex-con away from the piano. It had gathered quite a crowd of onlookers, all marvelled, faces a picture of awe at the sight of the deaf pianist and the more Neal played, the brighter the spark of pride inside Peter's chest burned. That was<em> his <em>"pet con." And damn, was Neal wonderful. Neal was more wonderful that he'd ever let on to be.

He didn't miss a note, didn't stumble and the music was just effortless. That's what made it great, the fact Neal could play such beautiful sounds and yet be totally cut off from them himself. But it made it tragic too.

Neal didn't look disappointed to be pulled away and he managed to cut the song to an early end with a one final, perfect note. Peter, out of habit, spoke to his consultant before he realised that there was a chance he'd never be able to just_ speak _to Neal ever again.

"Come on, Neal. Have you got your hat?"

No answer, obviously but Neal had got it already. As they were heading towards the door in the far corner of the room that led to the many offices of each doctor, an old woman with white ringlets that tumbled past her shoulders and grey, almost violet eyes tapped Peter on the shoulder with a long, pale finger.

"He's magnificent." She whispered with a heavy rasp to her voice, blushing at the emotional state she found herself in. "Tell him that, will you? Make sure he knows."

"I will." Peter rested his hand on her arm for a moment, before turning back to Neal who waited by the open door and watched the exchange with an unidentifiable emotion.

They walked down the long, well lit yet rather plain corridor towards the door that had Dr Miles Arnold in black, bold letters imprinted on the glass. Neal found himself walking behind Peter, feeling distinctly like a child being taken to the doctors by a worried parent. Peter was certainly being very protective and Neal could understand that, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He was deaf but he wasn't an invalid. Neal had to think before he thought of himself as 'deaf' because it just didn't seem quite real yet. When pictured himself, he saw many people.

He saw Neal Caffrey, the criminal.

Nicholas Halden, the gambler.

George Donnelly, the treasure hunter.

Gary Rydell, the playboy.

He saw so many other people. But what he_ didn't _see was a deaf man.

His awareness of being treated like a child only heightened when Dr Arnolds greeted Peter first and then shook hands with Neal. The doctor and the agent had a brief conversation before they say down on the four, blue plush chairs away from the desk. It was during this time that Neal got a chance to truly look at the man and he was forced to invent a voice for him, because the real one was just out of reach. He was older than Neal, younger than Peter and wore a pair of thick rimmed glasses over a crooked nose. His hair line was receding, but it kept all of its ink black colour and his eyes, though squinted, were a welcoming shade of hazel. Miles Arnold was a short man, at least as short as Mozzie which was impressive but he carried himself with this air of grace and because of this, he seemed taller than he truly was.

Neal was ushered into a seat beside Peter and an empty chair that wasn't filled by Arnolds. It was then that a woman with strawberry blonde hair let herself into the office wearing a pale green uniform and she carried a laptop. She sat in the spare seat and tilted the screen towards Neal. There were two lines of writing across an otherwise blank word document.

_I'm Mandy. I'm going to type up everything Dr Arnolds says so you can keep up and ask any questions, okay?_

"Okay." Neal's voice remained quiet because it was less risky than trying to speak at a normal volume.

_Don't worry, I'm really fast._ Mandy grinned and began to type in time with the doctors lips.

_Okay Mr Caffrey, we're going to get right down to business. We'll discuss the operation and how it's going to go, the likely outcomes and anything else you're concerned about with regards to this surgery._

Neal felt like even more of a child.

Peter felt like a parent. He'd long since noticed and ignored the fact that Arnolds began to address him rather than Neal, referring to the ex-con as 'him' rather than 'you'. Thankfully, the agent knew that in the current situation, being mollycoddled wasn't the most important matter at hand and quite frankly, Peter couldn't have cared less about Neal's wounded pride, not if it meant that he would recover. The FBI agent tried to convince him that 'if' wasn't the best word to use.

Neal would get better.

He _had_ too.

"Now, as you're aware, the damage to Neal's ears was significant. To be quite honest, Mr Burke, it was one of the worst cases I've seen from a sudden, loud noise, but that doesn't mean there isn't hope." Arnolds pulled out some files from a plastic wallet and gave them a quick glance over. "He didn't respond at all to the audiogram or any of the other tests, suggesting that the damage to his inner ear is….grave."

Peter saw Neal visibly pale in his seat and the woman stopped writing briefly at the young man's rather sickly looking expression.

"Neal?" Peter put himself in the others line of vision and he blinked rapidly, shaking himself out of the trance.

"What now?" Neal forced the question out of his mouth, grateful that at least _he_ couldn't hear the wretched quality of his voice. Peter looked back towards the doctor as Arnolds hadn't noticed his patients discomfort and he gestured for the man to continue and get it over with.

"Now, we go ahead with the surgery. It's done under general anaesthetic, so he may be clumsy or disoriented for the first 24 hours after the operation. He may have to stay in hospital overnight and he'll need to stay with someone for a few days. It involves grafting a piece of skin underneath both damaged ear drums. However, the aim of this operation isn't to restore Neal's hearing; however there's a chance it will have an effect, but don't expect it. The result will be known as soon as he wakes up. If he's going to regain any hearing naturally because of this surgery, then we'll know straight away." Arnolds pushed his glasses further upwards.

"What are the risks?" Peter was purposefully avoiding one particular question.

"Well, there's infection, but that's extremely low. Reaction to the anaesthetic, again, minimal. No allergies, Mr Caffrey?"

Neal gave a slight shake of his head.

"Well, in that case, the only real risk involved in that during the procedure, a small nerve that runs behind the ear drum could be damaged and Neal could experience a loss of taste or numbness on the side of his tongue, but it would improve eventually. But again, that's minimal-"

Neal didn't care about interrupting the man at that moment. Manners pushed aside, he leaned forward, blue eyes unwavering. "What if it I still can't hear? What then?"

There was an uncomfortable silence, which Neal didn't react too and yet every other hearing person in the room looked away, unable to even look at Neal because their faces would have betrayed their pity.

Miles Arnolds turned to face Neal directly. "If that's the case, there are other options Neal. You could learn sign language, or lip reading-"

"_No_."

Neal stopped the man as soon as the word appeared on the screen. Peter rubbed at his face with clammy palms.

"Well…." Arnolds stood up, walked towards his draws and began to shuffle through them. He returned a few moments later with two copies of a leaflet in hand, he passed one of each of the men. "There's always this, but we're getting ahead of ourselves here."

"Cochlea implants?" Peter's confusion mixed with interest wasn't mirrored on Neal's rather stony, cold expression, one which again was so alien on Caffrey's symmetrical face.

"Yes, but we'll discuss that at a later date if needs be. For now, let's just get through this operation. Neal, you're scheduled for half twelve on Wednesday afternoon."

"So soon?" Peter asked, tentatively.

"The sooner the better."

Arnolds gave Neal a few forms to sign, which he did without saying anything before they all stood up and the doctor handed Peter a list of do's and don'ts. Neal didn't say thank you or even goodbye as they left the office and Peter couldn't blame him. He thought about putting an arm around his friend's shoulders, just to convince the young man that despite what he thought, he wasn't alone in this.

But Peter didn't. He did however glance over the leaflet before folding it carefully and placing it in his pocket. He pretended not to notice the way Neal screwed up his copy in a clenched, white knuckle fist and shoved it in the first trash can he saw.

He hadn't read a single word.

After seeing Dr Arnolds, Peter had driven them to a little coffee place near the office where they sold the most delicious muffins Neal had ever had the luxury of tasting. He found his appetite had been vacant since….._it_ happened and the soft, warm brown cake that he used to eye ball every time he passed now looked sickly and repulsive. Peter didn't comment on the way Neal kept his eyes fixed on the rim of his coffee cup, watching the steaming liquid as it darkened and turned cold like everything else.

Neal hadn't reacted very much to the agent's attempts at getting him to talk. What was there to talk about anyway? At that point, all Neal wanted to do was forget but that wasn't going to happen. How could he forget it when it was everywhere, cutting off everything else that could possibly distract him?

There was still no word from Mozzie.

Neal wasn't worried; it was Mozzie, after all. In a certain sense, he was glad. Glad that he wouldn't have to face the man, admit that everything was over, that he'd made a mistake.

Admit that the FBI had ruined his life, just like Mozzie had said it would.

Neal hated being wrong.

He hated a lot of things.

He also had grown to hate Peter's chicken scratch handwriting too as yet another note was shoved under his nose.

_Hugh has given me a few days leave, to help you out._

Neal, surrounded by far too many people for his liking, though at first he barely noticed them as they just faded into the muted background, decided to keep his lips sown shut, so he wrote back to Peter without ever looking up.

_I don't need a babysitter, thank you very much._

Peter bit down on his tongue to try and curb his irritation. He understood that it was hell for Neal, but the young man wasn't making it any easier with his snide comments.

_Of course you don't, but you do need some help, whether you want to admit it or not_.

Neal rolled his eyes and didn't pick up the pen again.

And that was the end of that conversation.

When Peter stopped outside June's, he watched as Neal unlocked the door and gave a limp, careless wave in his direction before walking up the steps without his usual fanfare of megawatt smiles and thumbs up. He simply pulled out his key, opened the door and went inside.

Agent Burke sighed and let himself fall forward, his forehead resting against the steering wheel, his hands gripping it tightly. He was half tempted to slam his hand on the horn, just to make some sort of point but it was then, as he lifted up his head and glanced down the street, that he saw a familiar, stout figure approach the car.

Very little hair. Glasses. Checked shirt.

It was Mozzie.

Neal's best, most loyal friend, opened the passenger side door of the Taurus and let himself in, sinking in the seat without sparing so much as a glance at the FBI agent.

But Peter could see it in Mozzie's eyes.

He knew.

He knew what had happened to Neal.

He knew that Peter had failed him.

"Drive, Suit."

Mozzie's voice was low and conveyed nothing except cold, callousness.

Peter put the car in gear and pulled immediately away from the curb.

He knew that however this 'conversation' ended, it was not going to end well.

Peter drove in no particular direction, only making turns when the traffic was particularly heavy and the tense atmosphere in the car only made him drive faster so he could focus on something, anything other than Mozzie's grinding teeth.

The agent knew what Mozzie was going to say. He knew because he felt it himself. He had repeated those same things over and over in his own head, desperate to make sense of it all, of what had happened to that lying, loving art forger who had somehow wormed his way into Peter's heart. Peter had a big heart, a gold one and Neal, being as he was, could get anyone to believe that they cared about him.

But Peter genuinely did.

So did Mozzie and that was apparently where the problem lay.

They drove for no more than ten minutes and without the background hum of the radio, Peter was getting extremely uncomfortable but he'd purposely kept it off when Neal was around in case it bothered him. Burke had had enough, so without a warning, he took a sharp turning into the first empty car lot he saw and parked diagonally, before switching off the engine.

Mozzie unbuckled his belt and got out, slamming the door behind him.

Peter followed after a few seconds when he had fully composed himself.

Mozzie was facing away from the other, hands in his pockets, his shoulders stiff as he gazed out across the lot towards the row of plain, brick houses. There was a fast food joint and one of the street lights was flickering as the afternoon made way for dusk and darkness began to descend on New York.

"I _know_, Suit. I talked to June."

Mozzie was distant at first, struggling and failing to keep his wayward emotions in check. He wasn't an angry person or a violent one, it's why he and Neal were such good friends. Two cons who didn't enjoy the satisfaction of hurting one of their victims, physically at least.

But if Mozzie had ever been that angry and seriously considering throwing his fists, it was at that moment. He scrunched up his knuckles, clasping one inside the other to stop it from moving impulsively towards the target.

Agent Peter Burke had done it this time.

Neal had been hurt before and that was precisely it. Those times were nothing more than bruises, scrapes, something Neal could walk easily away from.

But not this time.

"Mozzie."

That wasn't all Peter wanted to say, but Mozzie, in his stupor and slightly drunken rage, wanted nothing less than to listen to the Fed list his excuses.

There were none as far as Mozzie could see.

"Don't 'Mozzie' me." The shorter man turned swiftly around as he spat, his words like daggers in game of medieval knights. "You do know what you've done to him, don't you? You've ruined his life! He's deaf and it's not going to get better and you're going to have him sent back to prison by the beginning of next week because let's face it, he ain't gonna be much help to the FBI anymore!"

"Send him-"Peter gasped at that one. "I wouldn't do that Mozzie! He's deaf, but he's still Neal! His contract isn't what's important here, but it still stands, no matter what."

"Oh really?" Mozzie's voice dropped to a whisper, again. "June told me what happened. She told me that you sent him in there, _alone_, while you sat eating devilled ham in your surveillance van and all the while-"

"Neal _chose_ to go in there! He knew what he was getting himself into!" Peter found that his voice had raised into a shout and he hated that. He hated not being able to control himself but for all he had, Peter couldn't work out why he was even defending himself.

Everything Mozzie believed was true.

"This is Neal we're talking about!" Mozzie threw open his arms in the most dramatic fashion but his hands were shaking, the vein on the right side of his head pulsed beneath his suddenly pale skin. "He doesn't think about these things, not properly! He just waltzes into danger with that damn _Caffrey smile _and you just let him!"

"There was nothing I could do, Mozzie…."At the other man's distress, Peter softened his tone but this only infuriated Mozzie more.

"That's what you always say, every single time. It what you _pigs_ do. You think that guys like me and Neal, we don't matter. Just maim one, deafen another, I mean, who cares, right?" Mozzie rubbed at his bald head in exasperation, his tone laced with sarcasm. "You kill one, just go grab the next convict! We're just criminals. Dispensable!"

"Don't be so insane, Mozzie!" Peter hissed, jabbing a finger. "I care about Neal just as much as you do!"

"Oh really?" Mozzie actually laughed. Sniggered at that, his hands on his knees, his lips turned up in this distraught smirk. "Then why did you do this to him?"

"I didn't."

"Okay, why did you _let_ this happen to him?"

"I tried to stop it Mozzie, I did….." Peter trailed, closing his eyes and he turned away to face the empty car lot, grateful for the momentary freedom from Mozzie's burning gaze. Peter had never seen the man so livid, but he knew he was capable of it. Mozzie cared for Neal more than anyone else, his best and perhaps his only, true friend. "I ran towards him, the second that man appeared….but it was too late. And then….Neal was screaming and crying….and I couldn't do anything, Mozzie. There was nothing I could do or could have done."

Mozzie pretended not to hear the soft, choked sob that interrupted Peter's words.

"You should have _protected_ him."

"Don't you think I know that?" Snarled the taller man, running a hand through his hair in frustration and he whipped around again, only to find Mozzie directly in front of him, closer than ever.

They stood, nose to nose, both hurting, both grieving for their mutual friend.

Mozzie growled like an animal with this rage, so raw and real and Peter recognised it because he shared it. He knew that Neal did too.

Of course, deep down, Mozzie knew that it wasn't entirely Peters fault. Neal was a grown man, he knew what he was getting himself into but Peter was supposed to protect him. If not from the real bad guys, then from himself.

"This is your fault, _Suit_."

That nickname, 'Suit', there was a time when it was nothing more than a harmless jest at the FBI's expense but it was different in that desolate, darkening car lot where they stood.

It meant so much more.

"I know."

Peter didn't have the energy to fight it anymore.

"I blame you."

"So do I, Mozzie."

"You did this." Mozzie backed away a few steps, the hollow street light turning his skin a violent orange, his eyes two black, bottom less pits in a wrathful face. "_You did it_."

Peter exhaled shakily, unable to look the man in the eye because he was right and they both knew it.

The agent watched as the other man turned and walked away, blending in with the long shadows that stretched across the pavement. He waited until the retreating back was gone before he allowed himself to break and kick the rim of his car tire with his foot.

With a cry of pain and tears of hopelessness, Peter Burke sat down on the curb and thought back to Neal.

If Neal Caffrey did blame him, then one day, he might forgive the man who caught him twice.

But Peter Burke would never forgive himself.

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><p><em>"When we were children, we used to think that when we grew up we would no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability, to be alive is to be vulnerable."- <em>Madeleine L'Engle

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><p><em><strong>AN:**_ Please review! I love to hear your guys opinions and please hang me out to dry on any mistakes! No flames please, however.

Before I go, I just wanted to say how proud I am to be a fan of Matt Bomer! I know this was a while ago, but I only just found out he came out as gay and I think it was a really brave thing to do and it just makes him even more awesome :D

Beware of the gushing fan girl guys….if I love him so much, then why on Earth do I torture Neal Caffrey like this?


	5. The Longest Night

**The Whistler's Whistle.**

**The Longest Night.**

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><p><strong>AN:** I'm back with a new chapter! I hope it's okay, I wasn't too sure about it at first. I want to say thanks to my Beta SherlockXHolmes23 and to everyone who reviewed or added this fic to their alerts. I really appreciate it!

**Warning**: Again, medical inaccuracies - any faults are my own.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing here.

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><p>"<em>Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls. The most massive characters are seared with scars."<em> - Khalil Gibran

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><p>Monday night came quickly, as did Tuesday night but Neal wasn't one for staring at the grandfather clock. To be quite honest, he'd forgotten it was there. Without the clanging at the dawn of every hour, he found that they all seemed to blend in one, very long hour. He lost track of time and didn't see the point of keeping it.<p>

He didn't have to go into the hospital until the morning of the surgery, which meant Neal spent his time at home doing….well, very little.

He read.

But he found that when he read, his eyes would just skim the lines and by the time he'd gotten to the bottom of the page, the words were lost and there was no point in it.

He cooked pasta for himself then left it on the table, not a single morsel touching his lips because the pangs of hunger he'd had were gone, replaced with a gnawing feeling of apprehension.

Fear.

Though Neal wouldn't ever admit to that either.

He also spent an abnormal and slightly worrisome amount of time staring at his own reflection in the mirror by his bed. The light didn't improve the tired and worn face that gazed back at Neal.

But _that _Neal, the one trapped inside the mirror, he looked the same as Neal Caffrey always had and yet, he also looked unfamiliar. Like it wasn't really his face, just a carbon replica. A fake.

Sure, his face had had many names over the years but as the clock struck seven on an uneasy Tuesday evening, Neal grew to resent the baby blue eyes and mop of dark hair because despite what had happened to him, he still looked the same.

Neal expected to look different because he _was_ different.

He was not the same person as he was last Tuesday night, when things were the way they should be.

It was then, as Neal ran his finger across the mirror surface, tracing his clenched jaw line, that he noticed a slight shaking of the door of his apartment. It was minuscule. Tiny and Neal wouldn't have noticed but he found himself alert, watching those tiny details because they were all he had left.

He frowned deeply, stood up and slowly approached the door.

He wished to God that he could hear if someone was knocking because if he was honest with himself (which Neal Caffrey very rarely was) then he'd admit that he was just a little bit frightened.

How was he supposed to know who waited on the other side?

With a deep breath, he put his hand on the door knob and pulled it open.

His face betrayed the surprise that he tried to keep hidden at the sight of Mozzie.

A flustered Mozzie, one with a bottle of wine in his hand.

Neal stepped back to let the man in, ignoring the lingering gaze he felt on him as Mozzie looked him over.

They stood facing each other, one unsure what to say, the other unsure whether there was any point in saying anything. Then Mozzie began to talk, his lips moving so very quickly and Neal wondered how anyone could ever learn to read, comprehend such complicated movements. The younger man gestured to his ears with a shake of his head and Mozzie looked away and for the first time, Neal _actually_ noticed the awkward atmosphere.

It must have been bad if he could feel it inside his impenetrable bubble of silence.

"Hi, Mozzie."

Neal felt even more uncomfortable speaking aloud, but did so anyway, eying the bottle of expensive alcohol that hung from his friend's hand.

Mozzie said nothing. His face gave very little away and as much as that irritated Neal, it was something he'd come to accept about his strange friend.

Mozzie was as good as hiding his emotions as Neal Caffrey was.

Perhaps better, depending on the occasion.

But again, Neal had known Mozzie a long time so he knew that the other man was finding things…..hard to believe because his face was a blotchy red, his foot tapped a mindless rhythm upon the floor and he hadn't been drinking. Mozzie wasn't an alcoholic, but he used alcohol to take the edge of the day. It wasn't an unhealthy dependency, in fact, Neal found himself worrying if Mozzie _wasn't_ drinking.

That usually signaled that something was wrong but Neal already knew what it was.

He envied Mozzie.

Mozzie could be sad for his friend, angry for him but he wasn't the one who had to deal with it, was he?

The one who had to look life in the face every _single_ day and just watch it roll by while he was thrown out the loop and stranded at the side-lines.

Neal took two large glasses from the draining board and handed one to Mozzie.

It was going to be a _long_ night.

Peter was awake before his alarm went off, so it was no effort for him to throw back the duvet get up from the warm mattress as carefully as he could, so as not to wake Elizabeth.

He swayed for a moment, before walking towards the windows and drawing back the curtains slightly.

The sun barely peaked out from behind the thick array of dark clouds that hung low and threatening, but it was there. Long, yellow slivers of light struck the ground and the puddles shimmered after the light downpour of rain that Peter had heard during the early hours.

He'd been awake then too.

He glanced at the alarm clock.

7:30.

He had about two hours until he and Neal were supposed to be at the hospital and while the operation itself wasn't that serious, what it could do most certainly was.

It could make or break Neal Caffrey.

"Hun?"

Elizabeth had rolled over and sat up, pulling her silk dressing gown tighter around her frame, shivering in the morning chill. She had shadows under her eyes from being kept awake as her husband tossed and turned all night long.

"Morning, Elle." Peter's usual chirpiness wasn't there.

"What time are you picking up Neal?" Elizabeth stood and came around to the window, wrapping her arms around her husband's waist and resting her chin on his shoulder as he continued to gaze out at the street.

"Nine." Peter murmured, letting his head drop to rest on hers and he sighed.

"I'll go put breakfast on and you shower first."

"First?"

"Yeah, I'm coming too." Elizabeth drew away and crossed over to the dressing table and sat down, movements jagged as she ran her brush through her dark hair.

Peter nodded. He knew just how much Neal meant to his wife, his co-workers. The young man had that effect on everyone and the ability to get close to people was what made him a great con man.

It also made him a great friend, once trust wasn't an issue anyway.

Agent Burke was in and out of the shower in only a few minutes, too anxious to stay under the warm water for too long and his usual breakfast cereal tasted bland, even though he'd had the same cereal for years and never grown bored.

It was one of _those_ days.

The days when nothing felt right anymore. And for Neal, perhaps never would again.

Elizabeth came down from the bathroom twenty minutes later, as Peter fixed his tie. He wasn't sure what to wear, khakis and a shirt would have been fine, but without his suit, he didn't feel quite like himself. He left his top button undone, not on purpose but because Satchmo wrapped himself around his owners legs, eyes large and round.

"Hey, Satch." Peter ruffled the dog's ears, as he always did but the Labrador didn't yelp with glee. He whimpered quietly, detecting the tense atmosphere of the house, the way none of humans smiled that morning.

Elizabeth grabbed her handbag and gave the dog a quick kiss on the nose before he retreated back to his basket and Peter took the car keys from the hook and they left the house.

Once inside the car, they turned the heating right up and drove in silence for a few moments, before Elle turned the radio down and turned to face Peter.

"He's gonna be okay, hun." She truly believed that, deep down and Peter could see that, but he couldn't believe as she did. Calling him pessimistic wouldn't have made a difference because he had empty, frightening feeling inside.

A feeling that it just wasn't going to work out how it was meant to.

"The doctor…..Elle, he basically said Neal wasn't going to hear again." Peter looked into her eyes, searching them for any doubt and there was none. That's what he loved about her.

Faithful until the end.

"That doesn't mean he won't. And if he doesn't….then he'll cope. Neal won't let this beat him."

"Maybe, but what's going to happen if the board decides he can't work for me anymore? Will they send him back to prison?"

"They won't do that." The panic set in across her beautiful face, "They _can't_."

"Except, they can, honey." Peter reached over and took her hand in his, squeezing it once to reassure the both of them. "But let's not think about that."

When they arrived at June, the entered the large, pristine house to find June sipping coffee in the dining room, alone as she waited for Neal to come down.

She too insisted on coming to the hospital and Neal hadn't protested simply because he couldn't be bothered. They weren't going to listen or care what he had to say and the CI found it a struggled to drag himself out of bed that morning. June had woken him with gently shakes, her fingers running through his mused hair and he wasn't at all surprised to see that Mozzie had left while he slept.

It didn't disappoint him either.

With a blank expression, the con man had showered, dressed and smoothed out his wild hair with trembling hands.

It was nine fifteen when he left the apartment and wandered towards the stairs, stopping at the sight of Peter Burke half way up them.

The older man stopped and waited for Neal to reach him, expecting the other trip and fall forwards because he looked so damn _fragile._

"You okay, Neal?"

The younger man nodded and Peter couldn't be sure whether he understood his handler or was just nodding because he didn't want the hassle. Neal held his overnight back in a bag over one shoulder, a pair of pajamas and a change of clothes, toothbrush, sketch pad and few others things he picked up simply because June told him too.

He didn't plan on staying in the hospital overnight if he could help it, regardless of the outcome of the surgery.

By 6 PM that very same day, Neal would know how he would be forced to live every other day after wards.

Every day of his life came down to a few hours in the early afternoon on a Wednesday.

Or at least, it seemed that way to Neal.

Elizabeth embraced Neal once he stepped from the stairs, lightly, delicately as if a single touch from her and he would break. He returned it limply, before June, Peter, Elle and he left the house.

The Taurus pulled away from the curb and Neal, sat in the front with his bag on his lap, watched bleakly as the world rushed by his window.

It went too fast and the second he blinked, it was gone.

"We're just getting Neal prepared for surgery, but you can see him before we take him in if you want too." Dr Arnold's said to the Burke's and June as they stood nervously in the family waiting room. They'd signed Neal in and the young con had been led away by nurses.

So all they could do was wait, apparently.

"Yes, how long will that be?" Elle asked, entwining her fingers instinctively with her husband's.

"Not too long. Now, what are the arrangements for Neal once he leaves the hospital?"

"Well, he's coming home with us, isn't he, Hun?" Elle looked up at Peter and he nodded slowly, though one look from June confirmed his suspicions.

"I think Neal might prefer to be at home, Elle….." He trailed off because although he knew that Neal was going to need help, he also knew that Caffrey wasn't going to accept it.

Not unless he had too.

"I know, Peter but-"

Dr Arnold's, having glanced at his watch and seen the time, cut in. "I'm sorry. Perhaps this should be discussed later? Neal's in room 222B, you have about five minutes to go see him."

The three nodded and after getting directions from the nurse, they left to go find their friend.

It was Elizabeth who approached Neal first and sat on the edge of his bed, her hand searching out Neal's. She pulled out her notepad from her oversized handbag and wrote Neal out a quick note which Peter didn't see. The young man's lips flickered upwards in a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was barely there; just a glimpse of happier times and Peter forced himself to look away.

June sat down also and the three exchanged words for a few minutes as Peter hung awkwardly in the background. He wanted to talk to Neal, he needed too, but he felt intrusive. He'd never been one for caring and sharing and he found himself leaving the whole 'comforting' thing to Elle, who had every maternal bone in her body.

After a few minutes, Neal glanced up at his handler momentarily as the two women scribbled away.

"Elle, June." Peter stepped forward, suddenly feeling very shy and vulnerable. "Do you mind if I talk to Neal alone before…..?"

June nodded and gave Neal a quick peck on the cheek before leaving. Elizabeth stayed a moment longer, her waterfall of dark hair shielding Neal's face from sight before she too leaned down to press her lips against his forehead in goodbye.

Her hand brushed Peters as she left and the Agent hesitated a moment before sitting in the chair beside Neal, wringing his hands unconsciously in his lap.

Neal's blank blue gaze seemed out Peters face for any tell-tale signs of what the man was thinking. He was nervous, blinking rapidly, his fingers twitching and the young con man found himself studying the lines beneath the agent's eyes, deep and engraved in the skin.

He didn't remember Peter looking so _old_.

The agent picked up the pen.

_Are you nervous?_

Neal gave a quick shake of his head, at which Peter raised an eyebrow.

_It's okay to be scared Neal. _

"I'm not scared."

The con man was very sure about that, it was the truth. He wasn't scared, not yet. But he was going to be. The full force was going to hit him like a freight train.

_Well, the doctor says it's a very simple procedure. No longer than a few hours._

Another nod.

_Then afterwards, they'll take you for an audio gram and a couple other tests. But you don't need to worry about that yet, let's just focus on this first. _

Another look of quiet confirmation.

Peter struggled with what to write. There was a lot he wanted to say. A lot he had to say but it was so hard because to be quite frank, he wasn't sure what he felt himself.

This was more than some operation.

This was the feeling he had, the one that lingered and choked him and Peter tried to push it away, hide.

But Neal, being as perceptive as he was, could see the fear in the older man's eyes.

Another silent silence.

_You're going to be fine. I'll see you when you wake up Neal, okay?_

Neal faked a Caffrey grin and Peter paused before settling his hand on the crown of the young man's head, brushing through his dark hair like he had on that day Neal got himself caught and drugged.

The day Neal admitted just how _much_ he trusted Peter.

The agent said a goodbye and just before he left the room, he spared one last look at Neal.

But Neal was a million miles away.

Like everything else in that place, the sheets were cold.

Unwrinkled.

And unnaturally white.

Neal ran his finger over the thin material tucked tightly around his body, so tightly that Neal felt constricted and cocooned in the sterile cloth. He'd heard that young babies liked the feeling of being trapped, wrapped like a parcel because it gave them security.

The echo of safety they craved in the real world which they 'de suddenly been born into.

Neal didn't feel safe.

Or secure.

Not in the slightest.

The IV drip they'd stuck in his arm was itchy and he was tempted to rip it out and watch the blood trickle out and stain the bed sheets.

Not quite so white anymore.

With a frustrated sigh, Neal let his head drop back against the bed railing because he refused to just lie down and _wait._ Wait for them to knock him out and wheel him into the lab, electrodes ready, scalpel sharpened.

Neal Caffrey.

The Lab Rat.

Neal admitted that in some aspects, he was a rat. He was certainly a thief. A liar. A criminal. In his everlasting solitude, Caffrey wasn't afraid to admit what he was, what he had become.

He wasn't ashamed of that.

Perhaps he should have been, but what really shamed him was his vulnerability.

Neal Caffrey didn't _do_ vulnerability. He had a perfectly sculptured mask, one he'd honed and tweaked and refined for many years, one of false confidence and bravado. He hardly ever took it off but if someone, anyone, caught a glimpse of just how fragile he truly was, then Neal would hide away again and tweak the mask a little more.

It was just the dance he did.

The routine.

Well, that had certainly gone to Hell.

They'd put a nasal cannula on Neal, it hooked over his ears and again, he didn't like the way it constricted the way he moved his face. There were other wires that he became tangled in, woven in. He'd move one arm and it'd end up caught like a fly in a spider's web.

Poor, _helpless_ fly. Stupid enough to think it could outwit the spider, get past something so much stronger than himself.

So much bigger.

Neal gave up trying to get his limb back and instead, he focused on just how much he had to drink the night before. He shouldn't have drank, he knew that, but he didn't have much. Mozzie finished off most of the bottle, as well as four others, before passing out on Neal's couch.

Yet the company did nothing to help Neal get to sleep.

It was ten minutes later that Dr Arnolds entered the room, eyes running over the charts and he smiled at Neal, a reassuring smile that was supposed to make him feel better.

It didn't.

The doctors and nurses busied around for a little while, talking to each other as Neal waited, teeth gnawing absently at his lip.

They made him lie down, positioning his arm and legs so he lay straight and aligned and that's when Neal Caffrey began to feel anxious. Their gloved hands and air of professionalism made him feel sick and through yet another note, they told him he had only a few minutes until he was going to be put under.

A few minutes to truly think about his future, what lay ahead for Neal George Caffrey.

The road was going to go one of two ways and one of those paths, Neal dared not think about.

He couldn't stay this way. _Deaf. _

It was _not_ an option.

A mask was placed over his nose and mouth and Neal gripped the blankets tightly with his fists as he waited for the darkness, but he was suddenly desperate to keep hold of reality, frantic to remain awake.

His eyes began to feel heavy and his grip loosened as this dense, numbing sensation took over his limbs and encased them and he felt his head loll.

The last thing Neal saw was Dr Arnold's face and the last thing he felt was a coldness clutching at his chest, refusing to let go.

And then, he was asleep.

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><p><em>"Pain so constant, it's like my stomachs full of rats. There isn't an inch of me that doesn't <strong>hurt<strong>." - _Ianto Jones, Torchwood.

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><p>Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a review!<p> 


	6. The Blackness Of Oblivion

**The Whistler's Whistle.**

**The Blackness Of Oblivion.**

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><p><strong>AN:** Sorry it took so long to update, life's been hectic recently and I found this chapter _impossible (_I still don't like it_)_ but I had some great advice, so hopefully, it's okay. It was originally twice as long, but I decided to spit it up into Chapter six and seven. Anyway, I hope this chapter is okay (I'm kind of nervous about posting it) and I realise it's not my best, but it's needed. Thanks again to my beta SherlockXHolmes23.

**Warnings:** Medical inaccuracies, that's about it.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing here.

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><p>"<em>People fall out of the world sometimes, but they always leave traces, little things you can't quite account for: faces in photographs; luggage; half-eaten meals; rings. Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely."<em> – Doctor Who

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><p>When Neal Caffrey was a little boy, he thought that the world wasn't real.<p>

With everything he had, Neal believed it. The stars, the world, all the people, the trees and flowers and police cars were all just illusions.

_Dreams_.

The playthings of a giant, not real and not living. But at five years and forty three days old, no one listened to Neal. He was just a stupid little boy, as his teacher so kindly pointed out. A boy who couldn't tell the difference between reality and the cruel, twisted nightmares that haunted him at night.

Those nights were spent alone and hungry because his mother was out working all the ungodly hours no one else wanted because it was that or Neal would go without dinner.

And a roof.

Even at five, Neal knew it wasn't his mother's fault but that didn't stop him crying when the sun disappeared and the lights wouldn't turn on because the electricity bill hadn't been paid in weeks. So rather than sit in the darkness on the single mattress in the centre of the room that had become their 'home', Neal would wrap himself up in an oversized navy blue coat that had once belonged to his Daddy.

The Hero.

_Neal's_ hero.

Just by wearing it, the little boy felt that little bit safer, that little bit _less_ alone and suddenly the shadows that swamped the flat and concealed the monsters would shrink away back to the pits of wherever they'd come. The hem of the coat dragged just below Neal's ankles and no matter how hard he tried, the zip always remained stuck, allowing the cold air to engulf him once again.

It was a Monday night when it happened. Just like every Monday night, his mother had cooked him what little she could for dinner and then left with only a quick kiss on the cheek as a goodbye. He'd watched her go, a book open in his lap and he attempted the read the long, complicated words but his mind wasn't in it.

There was something _wrong._

Neal had bundled himself back in the coat and left the apartment, shutting the door softly behind him (he didn't need to worry about taking a key because that friend of his mothers had smashed the lock a few months before) and without pausing for a moment in the shadowed hallway, Neal had run from the building.

The cold didn't hit him nearly as hard as it should have because Neal was used to it, but what did strike Neal as peculiar was the little man sat on the bottom steps, smoking quietly away at a cigarette.

He coughed every few moments, hacked and choked on the dirt in his lungs before taking another drag, the only thing that made it all worth it.

He pretended not to notice Neal Caffrey hovering behind him and instead decided to talk to hushed city night, his listener.

"The city is supposed to be quieter at night, but I've always thought it was louder."

Neal jumped and balled his fists tighter around the coat but the man continued to talk, smoking away without ever looking around.

"There's that bleeping of the car alarm that doesn't seem to come from anywhere. Those footsteps, not as many as in the daytime, but just as dogs. Midnight taxis. The drunk man singing down that alley way and the sad thing is, he's got real talent. Then there's the sound of the babies crying-"He cut off and stubbed his cigarette out on the concrete beside him, "Do you like the city at night, kid?"

Neal felt his breath catch in his throat and a few moments passed where neither said anything but then Neal, being unable to resist the company of anyone, replied with a tiny voice.

"No."

The little boy could tell that the man smiled without ever seeing his face. "Why's that?"

"It's too dark." Neal suddenly felt incredibly exposed and the only thing that stopped him from running was his Daddy's coat, a symbol of bravery and courage and everything his father had been. Everything Neal wanted to be. "I don't like the dark."

With a real laugh, the man patted the step beside him, his thinning brown hair blowing slightly in the breeze. Neal licked his dry lips and shuffling forwards before sitting down next to the stranger, without looking at him directly, he was too shy for that.

"It scares you?" The man asked, gruffly and softly at the same time. "Don't worry, it scares me too."

"Then why are you sitting out here? That's just silly." It was a sudden boldness that had made Neal ask the question and he winced, slamming his tiny hand across his mouth because that was a rude thing to say to an adult; especially one he'd only just met.

But again, the man just chuckled and didn't look down at Neal, just continued to stare out at the deserted street and it was only then that Neal noticed he wore thick rimmed sunglasses, the hinges taped together.

"Well, it scares me but if I didn't sit out here now, when else would I?"

With a puzzled frown, Neal looked back up at him.

Sharp finger nails that scratched absently at his beard.

"I don't understand what you mean….."

"No. _You _wouldn't."

The little boy wasn't sure whether he was meant to reply to that, so instead stayed quiet and played with the coat zip, tongue stuck between his teeth in frustration.

A half hour passed and the man lit and tossed away another cigarette and Neal watched it burn and flicker on the pavement, a little orange ember dying.

"What's your name?" The stranger questioned calmly.

"Caffrey. Neal Caffrey." The little boy was simply copying what the men said on those lame cop shows, the thing his Daddy must have said. "You can call me Neal."

"Well, hello, Caffrey Neal Caffrey." There was a smirk, but no mocking tone to his voice. "I'm Ben. You can call me Ben."

"Ben. I used to have a dog named Ben."

"Really? I had a dog."

"Had?"

"Yeah, he got run over. He's dead now."

"Oh." Neal felt that familiar wave of sadness wash over his head and he swallowed, before shoving it back down deep where it belonged, somewhere it couldn't touch him. "Sorry. My dog Ben, he went away with my Daddy."

"Where did your Daddy go?"

"Heaven."

"Oh."

Ben felt uneasy but his cool, collected exterior gave very little away about himself. That's just the way he liked it. He felt Neal shift at his side and heard the child breathe through his nose, clicking his teeth every now and again.

"Why don't you like the dark, Neal?" Ben asked yet another question, one the boy couldn't really answer.

"I…..guess it's because I can't see anything. When its dark…and I'm on my own….it's….I can't really explain." Neal truly couldn't. But everyone was afraid of the dark, how couldn't they be?

Even when you weren't alone (which Neal too often was) you couldn't see anybody and so it was like you _were_ alone. There were just noises that made no sense and sounded like snarls, the growls of monsters out to kill and the shadows seemed so much bigger and much _scarier._

But it wasn't just that, not for Neal. It was dark when his mother had told him that Daddy was dead and never coming back.

It had been the blackest night when Neal lost his hero.

"I know what you mean, kid." Ben sighed and shifted his legs and it was then that Neal noticed a walking stick propped up against the steps. The stranger didn't look that old but again, Neal thought it was better not to ask. "I'd give anything to see the light again."

The little boy blinked slowly, nervously and suddenly his coat wasn't enough to protect him.

He didn't understand.

That all Neal ever wanted.

"What….?" The boy's voice was a timid whisper but he trailed off because Ben turned around to face him and gently, hesitantly removed the thick framed glasses and let them fall into his lap.

Neal gasped.

Even in the electric orange glow of the street lamps, the boy could see it.

The whiteness, the nothingness that lay in Ben's eyes. There was no colour, no life, just a clouded film across his irises and Neal fought against the urge to run away inside again.

"Your eyes….."He murmured in a soft voice, "What happened to your _eyes?_"

"I'm blind, Neal. It just happens sometimes." Ben shrugged weakly and shoved the glasses back on his face, almost as if he couldn't stand to have his eyes on show for more than a few moments.

"How did it happen?"

"It just did."

Neal felt his heart thud harder and he wished he'd stayed inside, never met the man but something stopped Neal running. It wasn't anything big or important, it was just the way Ben hung his head with a limp roll of his shoulders, like it was too much effort to hold it up and face the world.

"Are you okay?"

Ben smiled at the question and ruffled Neal's dark, curly hair with a calloused hand. "I'm okay. You get used to it. It takes time…_a lot_ of time, but you adjust. You have to, Neal. It's that or die."

It only took a few months for Neal to forget he ever met Ben, ever saw his eyes or heard his pained, tired voice but the moment Neal had woke up the next morning after the meeting, he had made a blindfold.

While his mother was sleeping, Neal had wrapped it over his eyes and swore to keep it on all day and deal with the darkness, just like Ben had too.

But Neal Caffrey was only five years old, after all and soon the fear became too much and after ten minutes, he ripped it off.

Neal didn't like not being able see.

It was too scary.

It didn't worry Neal at first that he couldn't open his eyes. They were heavy and fluttered like butterfly wings with the effort and he soon gave up and resorted to moving his limbs. He thought perhaps they were chained down too, because they just remained in place no matter how hard he fought against them.

Neal was drifting, floating in this airy, light and quiet place and the warmth tempted him to stay there. He considered it, but underneath the hazy layer that stopped his thinking, Neal knew there was something important.

Something so, _so_ important.

Neal wasn't sure how much time passed but the light was blinding when he finally did prize open his eyelids and he felt his face screw up comically. Through blurry eyes, he watched the world whirl and swirl before sliding back into focus. It took too long for his liking.

And then he saw Peter.

The man was sat on a chair beside the bed Neal was tucked tightly into, papers spread across his lap and Neal's legs.

He was eating and Neal felt repulsed.

And sick. And way too dizzy for logical thoughts.

The ex-con man watched his best friend for a few minutes, absorbed in the tiny, bored movements he made. The twirling of his biro pen around his thumb, the way he crossed and uncrossed his legs whenever one started to tingle, the way he cringed at every sip of his coffee but still continued to drink it.

Hospital coffee was meant to be awful

When Peter yawned and finally looked up from his work, his face broke out into a smile at the sight of Neal's glassy blue eyes. He leaned forward and mouthed _Hello_.

Neal raised one hand and let it drop in greeting, ignoring the pulse monitor clipped to the end of his finger. Over the last few days, Neal had managed to pick up a few phrases when watching a person's lips. Not nearly enough, but Neal wasn't in the mood for talking anyway.

_You okay, Neal?_

Neal was going to nod and then he realised that he wasn't or at least, he didn't actually know. He felt numb, detached from the world even more so than usual and the buzzing continued to scream from all directions. But he barely noticed it was worse than before, his mind was too fuzzy for that.

"M'tired." Neal pushed all his thoughts away as some came back, slowly and in chopped segments that made no sense at all. "Head….hurts a little bit."

But he was tired and it didn't bother Neal that he couldn't remember that very important thing. He just let his head loll into the pillow and he soon fell quickly to sleep, too exhausted to give a damn.

Peter studied Neal's pale features as his eyes fluttered to a close and he dropped back into that black, unnaturally deep sleep that disturbed the agent. He sighed and let his hand drift up to brush the stray strands of the Neal's dark hair away from his forehead, his hand remaining on his head for longer than Peter intended. Running his fingers through the messy locks, the older man didn't noticed Elle or June come back into the room until Elizabeth's delicate hand touched his shoulder.

"Are you okay, Peter?" She whispered as she sat down next to her husband and June went around to the other side.

"Yeah, I'm fine." The agent pulled his hand back from his CI and smiled tightly at June, who began to pull out the food from the bags that she'd brought. She pulled out a thermo cup and handed it across the bed to Peter.

"Italian Roast." June said and the man gave a grateful nod, it was certainly better than the stale black liquid that the hospital 'claimed' was coffee.

"He woke up a second ago…."Peter began to stack his files in no particular order. "I don't think he understood what was happening really."

"The doctor said that was normal, the sedative. " Elle replied softly, eyes on the young man. "We'll just have to wait. It shouldn't be too long."

"Peter…." June took a sip of her coffee, carefully. "After the tests, we'll know whether….I don't mind Neal coming back home with me. In fact, I'd like him too."

Peter avoided her gaze because he knew this was going to be a difficult situation. He wanted Neal where he could watch him, stop him from retreating back inside that shell he was no doubt going to set up for himself.

"Well, Peter and I-"

"Hun, I think we should let Neal decide for himself. It's his life."

Neal had waited, hands wringing nervously in his lap as they attached various amounts of complicated looking equipment to his aching head, a bustle of nurses and doctors and specialists talking all the while. If he only he had known what they were saying but Neal couldn't be sure of anything at that moment.

All he knew was that he was in pain and the fear he felt was painted across his face and he hated that. He was so good at hiding everything he felt, from everyone and yet as sat there, it was unnaturally difficult. It was like not only had his hearing been stripped away but his ability to fool others into believing whatever he wanted.

Believing that he wasn't scared when in fact, it was the most true fear he'd ever felt.

His lips were pursed in a thin, straight line and he chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek. He used to do that when he was a kid. Sometimes, he chewed so hard that he broke the skin and his mouth flooded with blood. Neal swore he could see scars maiming the pink flesh when he shone a light inside his mouth.

He'd woken upproperly no more than an hour before. Disorientated. Dizzy and the buzzing in his ears had reached merciless levels and through the viscous, shrieking whirring of his injuries, he couldn't actually tell if he could _hear_ anything.

All sounds that could have leaked through were caught and pushed back by the buzzing, the tinnitus as the doctor had called it. It trapped everything, trapped _Neal._

He still didn't know.

All he knew was that his ears had been repaired.

But not fixed.

His _life _still hadn't been fixed and Neal winced at the harsh light from the beeping equipment, tearing his gaze back towards Peter, who spoke along to the beats of the buzzing.

Dr Arnolds didn't seem to display any particular emotions and that only heightened Neal's fear.

He couldn't read the man and that was the one thing Neal Caffrey was good at, relied upon. Hand gestures, the rate at which they blinked, where their gaze would stray when no one was looking.

The Doctor returned his attention to his patient. Finally, reluctantly and it was then that the tests began.

First they looked inside his ears and he found himself breathing through the dull pain that ignited the moment they did. The tiny camera with its distorted, hazy image meant very little to Neal but he found himself watching it up on the screen, remaining deathly still.

The body was a peculiar thing to look at. Pink, fleshy and dark and Neal couldn't pick much out and that also unnerved him. With art, the colours could mean nothing to most people but _everything _to Neal.

That he understood. Art he could look at and really _see_.

He thought he saw some stitches.

Then an advanced, complicated set of earphones were attached securely to the ex-cons head, so tightly that it hurt and through a few short, straight to the point notes, Dr Arnolds said he was going to play sounds of different pitches to see which ones Neal could hear.

If he could hear any, that was.

Two minutes.

This particular pitch which was a mystery to Neal.

One hundred and twenty seconds of buzzing was all that he heard.

The next sound and a few tense seconds of waiting and again all that greeted Neal was the continuous droning that he still hadn't grown accustomed to and very little else.

There's still hope, they said.

Fifteen more minutes for the pain to increase, the unblemished sense of fear to bubble.

Fifteen more minutes of silence.

Neal felt sick, like something was forcing its way up his throat; choking him and Peter's warm hand on his shoulder did nothing to ground him, stop him drifting away in the depths of oblivion.

He wanted to run.

Forget what he _couldn't _hear.

But it wasn't over yet.

A few more pitches to try and then we'll know, they said.

A few more candles, beacons of light and a few more buckets of water ready to extinguish them.

They pressed play and then they waited.

Waiting was a tortuous game. Forget patience, it was worthless.

A few minutes passed and everyone was studying Neal's expression, desperate for any hint, any clue that the young man heard something.

Anything. A tiny sound, a little flicker of noise, just _something_ so that his world wouldn't crumble into nothingness.

Peter would have given anything for Neal just _hear_at that moment.

But he knew, just by the absence of emotion on Neal's young, pained face, that it was over.

And he tightened his grip on the others shoulder and met the feverishly bright, cobalt blue eyes with his own and it was impossible not to see and whither like a dying rose at the despair within Neal's gaze.

Neal George Caffrey heard only _silence._

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><p><strong>AN**: If this chapter didn't go how you wanted it to, please don't abandon me because this story is not finished yet! A review would be much appreciated.


	7. The Familiar Stranger

**The Whistler's Whistle**

**The Familiar Stranger**

**A/N**: I hope people are still enjoying this fic as I'm having a little trouble writing it, what with White Collar gone until the summer (can't wait!) I seem to have lost my muse. Re-watching season three over again seems to help ;) As always, suggestions and constructive critism is welcome! I know I can improve my writing an awful lot. Chapters will probably be added less frequently from now on, simply because it only just hit me how close my exams are...uh. But please, stay tuned! The angst-ness will pass...hopefully...mwuhaha.

**Warnings: **Same as with every other chapter. Swearing! Also, my document manager wouldn't save so I couldn't break up the paragraphs properly, so it all flows as one...it's annoying and ruins it, but there's nothing I can do.

**Disclaimer: **White Collar is not mine and I do not profit from this.

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><p>"Does <em>this darkness have a name? This cruelty? This hatred? How did it find us? Did it steal into our lives or did we seek it out and embrace it? What happened to us? That we now send our children into the world like we send young men to war, hoping for their safe return, but knowing that some will be lost along the way. When did we lose our way? Consumed by the shadows, swallowed all by the darkness. Does this darkness have a name? Is it your name?." - One Tree Hill<em>

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><p>Peter Burke didn't cry very often. It took a lot to truly break him into pieces. But the look on Neal's face had done it. Peter had never seen a look quite like that, up close, on the face of someone he honestly cared about. It wasn't so much crying as it was silent tears. Peter didn't have the right to cry. He'd caused this by sending Neal into that building with <em>that<em> man.

That sick, pathetic excuse for a man who couldn't even detonate his own bomb.

He got his own _brother_ to do it instead.

The look on Neal's face captivated Peter's gaze, he just couldn't look away. It was _pure_ misery.

Hopelessness.

Dread.

It was everything that could destroy a man all blended together into one torturous look and the colour from the world seemed to drain, seep away leaving nothing but a cold, harsh reality that just didn't seem _right_ anymore.

Neal had shook his head, a tiny shake and his eyes remained transfixed on a spot on the wall so far away. He watched an invisible thing move across the world, a shadow that seemed to suck the life right out of him then and there.

Neal seemed to curl and die in that chair, right in front of everyone's eyes.

Peter couldn't look at him anymore.

If he looked at Neal, then he'd know what Neal had lost.

What _he_ had lost.

Neal Caffrey believed he lost his hearing, his life that day.

But Peter Burke lost his best friend.

The doctors said sorry, as if it was somehow their fault when maybe there had been no hope in the first place and Peter was too stunned to protest when he was bustled out of the room.

Neal still hadn't moved when Peter was gently shoved into the corridor where Elle and June waited. He didn't need to say it. The red tracks down his cheeks and rapidly blinking eyes told them all they needed to know, the one thing they'd probably rather not have not known.

June had bit down hard on her lip, her handkerchief coming up to hide her face and even in Elizabeth's daze, she clamped down on the older woman's hand as Peter sat down beside her.

"What do we do now?"

Peter clung hopelessly to Elizabeth, his fingernails digging into her shoulders. She didn't protest of course because she held onto him just as tightly, just as desperately.

"Now, we take him home."

With a nod and a dozen forms to be signed and far too many apologies, Peter was finally allowed to collect his friend and when he entered Neal's room, he immediately stopped short at the sight of the man.

Neal wasn't doing anything at all. He was still, disturbingly so and he barely moved except for the slow rise and fall of his chest with small, painful breaths and the bandage secured around his head was gone, but Neal somehow still managed to look like a broken doll held together by pieces of torn fabric.

A doll that had been mauled and beaten too many times.

He was facing the window and staring out through the closed blinds.

Peter tore his gaze away, unable to watch his friend disappear before his eyes and he picked up Neal's bag and handed it to Elle, who had followed him in.

"Can you go and get the car started, Hun? We'll be out in a minute."

Elle took one last sorrowful glance at the CI before leaving with June. Peter was glad because he didn't want anyone to watch his attempt at doing something to ease Neal's pain.

Except the younger man seemed to have adopted this impassive aura about him almost immediately.

It was like he didn't care, he was just existing,_ breathing_ because he had nothing else to do.

Neal didn't jump or react when Peter entered his line of vision.

He just stood up with a nod and no words and he was going to walk past his handler, but a hand on his forearm stopped him.

A gentle, yet distressed grip and Neal glanced down at the white imprint of Peters fingers around his wrist.

Peter looked down at Neal, waiting, wanted him to look up but he didn't. He wouldn't, so Peter did the only thing he could think to do. It was the only thing that felt justified.

Spoken words weren't important and besides, they were distant and gone from Neal's world, another one of those _unreachable _things.

Peter took Caffrey by the shoulders and pulled him against his chest, wrapping his own arms around the deathly still frame of his consultant and he just held him there. He didn't pat his back awkwardly or say anything and he did notice the way Neal's arms remained at his own sides, hanging limply. But he didn't pull away at the tension in Neal's muscles or the way he refused to acknowledge the older man's attempt at comfort. Peter was clasping onto Neal for his own sake, for his own guilt as well as that of the younger mans.

Neal was either unwilling or unable to return the embrace and his face was turned into Peter's neck, his cheek resting on the agents collar bone, his lack of expression hidden from everyone, even his best friend and Peter _wanted_ Neal to cry.

That sounded like a horrible thing to want, but at least it would mean that Neal acknowledged what had happened and what it all meant.

But Neal Caffrey stood frigidly in the older man's grip. He didn't pull away and he didn't make a move to hug his friend.

He just didn't seem to have the will or energy to _care._

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><p>On that rainy Wednesday evening, Elizabeth and Peter Burke welcomed a familiar stranger into their home.<p>

They knew him better than he knew himself in a lot of ways, or at least, they had done, once upon a time, many moons ago it seemed.

Neal let Elizabeth lead up to the house and to the couch where he sat, staring at the television screen despite the fact it wasn't switched on and Satchmo immediately hopped up onto the couch and tried to nuzzle his way into the young man's grip. Neal responded with a quick pet, but that was it.

It wasn't so much what Neal did that scared Peter and Elizabeth. It was what he _didn't_ do.

He didn't say anything besides 'thank you' and 'please' and only answered questions in short, simple sentences that gave nothing away. He had turned to writing notes instead of talking because it was easier in the way that it made it difficult for Peter to ask the real questions.

The _important_ questions.

At first, Neal had felt nothing. Not really. Well, he felt something but for the life of Neal, he had no idea what it was.

Shock, perhaps? No, that wasn't it. A tiny, insignificant fraction of Neal had known it was coming.

Sadness? No. Neal had been sad before, far too many times and while those episodes, those rather large of chunks of his life when he was alone were the worst thing he'd ever experienced, they were nothing compared to what Neal felt at that moment.

_That _moment, when sadness wasn't enough and the sorrow and the grief was nothing compared to the sheer _hatred_ Neal felt.

He wasn't sure why it was hatred. But it was the anger that was the cruellest of it all.

For Neal, it was safer to push everyone away, far away from that anger. Better for him, for Peter, Elle, everyone. How could he hurt them if he didn't let them get close enough to see it?

But it wasn't just that.

Neal _blamed_ them. Of course, he knew it wasn't their fault. It was wrong and unfair on so many levels to even think it was but it was okay for them because they could _hear._

Neal couldn't.

Neal didn't just grieve for what he'd lost. He hated himself, the weak, pitiful little creature he felt he had become and he hated how everyone acted differently now. The first few days he spent at the Burkes, they seemed to follow him with their hawk-like eyes, watching him, waiting for him to break. They knew it was coming and so did he, but he refused to let himself break because once he did, it would be _real_.

He wanted to cling onto his existence no matter how lost and futile it was.

He didn't want to let go and so Neal couldn't move one. All he wanted was to _forget._

The first night that he arrived at Peters was the worst, the loneliest. More than anything, he wanted to open his mouth and crack a joke just to convince them that he was okay. In reality, Neal was the furthest thing from okay.

'Okay' was a concept he couldn't fathom.

'Okay' wasn't an option for Neal. There was _no_ 'okay'.

He barely ate his dinner, just picked at his food with his fork, eyes transfixed on the plate almost as if by staring at it, the food would disappear and become someone else's problem.

Someone else's chore.

_Neal, try to eat something. Please. _Elizabeth's flowing handwriting with the looped letters seemed to echo the soothing, tender voice of hers he wished he could hear. He tried to imagine that tone, but it wasn't enough. It was never be enough.

"Sorry…..the anaesthetic is still making me feel a bit sick." A pathetic excuse and he knew it.

Peter had excused him kindly, his touch far too soft and Neal could have drowned in the pity that radiated from them both. He'd always hated pity, even as a child, unless there was something in it for him.

After an overly long shower that didn't feel like a shower because he couldn't hear the water draining down the plug, Neal sat on the guest bed, his hair dripping in tangled knots, his towel the only thing between him and the night air. He didn't want to put on his pyjamas and sleep because then Thursday would come.

Then Friday.

Saturday, Sunday.

Next week. Month.

Next _year._

Neal didn't want to think that far ahead.

The door opened slowly and Neal wiped away the moisture that had gathered in his eyes just as Peter entered the room. It would be Peter, wouldn't it? The _one_ person Neal didn't want to face. Pad and pen in hand, the man sat opposite Neal and began to write.

Neal wanted to crush that fucking pen.

_You know that you can talk to us, right?_

Caffrey pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of anything that could get him out of _that_ conversation.

"I know, but I'm tired Peter." Neal said hollowly, without a hint of the torrent of emotions that cackled inside him.

_I can't imagine how you're feeling and I won't pretend to understand but if you want to talk, whenever you're ready, I'm here. _

Peter looked like he was waiting, almost as if he was hoping Neal would admit everything he was feeling, release all the wayward and catastrophic emotions that flowed through his veins there and then. Neal decided the agent was going to be waiting a _long_ time.

The con man wrapped his towel tighter around himself, the damp, cold material felt cool against his skin and it grounded him as his head swam with fatigue and the good drugs that he still hadn't completely come down from. It was probably a helpful thing, the numbness; it meant he couldn't break because it hadn't fully hit him yet.

But the moment was coming. Slowly, but surely, it was there waiting in the darkness.

Peter passed over the navy, silk pyjamas and handed the shirt to his CI. It was embarrassing, to say the least, when Neal shrugged it on and found that his fingers were being extremely uncooperative. He was shaking too much. The cold being the source, obviously.

He couldn't even do up his own buttons.

Peter came forward and removed Neal's hands. It meant little to the FBI agent as he buttoned up Neal's shirt for him, but it meant everything to the ex-convict.

Neal couldn't carry on like that.

He _wouldn't._

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><p>Neal wasn't sure how many days he was going to stay with the Burkes, but it didn't matter.<p>

Either way Neal could continue existing in his lonesome silence, without answering to anyone because he didn't want them to know. They couldn't know how just how destroyed Neal truly was inside.

He didn't sleep and while to anyone else, it wasn't obvious, it was to the Burkes. They could hear him tossing at night, unable to stay still for long and then the floor boards would creak as Neal would slip out of his bed and sit on the window ledge.

It was impossible for him to step around the floor boards that gave him away simply because he couldn't hear which ones they were.

Peter had remained awake all Wednesday night, listening in the early hours in case Neal made a sound. He was uneasy, on edge and as soon as the clock had struck five-thirty, he'd dragged himself out of bed, eager to get to the office and back as quickly as possible. He needed to speak to Hughes, face to face. He didn't want to discuss Neal's future with his boss, it was all still too raw for that, but he wanted to look over some of the case evidence himself.

He wanted to catch the _bastard_ that had ordered the attack and hurt Neal.

Hurt him so badly.

Once he was dressed, the older man poked his head around the guest room door, half-expecting to find Neal still on that window ledge but instead, Neal was tangled in the blankets, his legs and arms at awkward angles and it was obvious by the sweat on his forehead and the knot between his eyebrows that he'd been dreaming. Peter stepped in quietly and got down beside him and it took a lot of effort to untwist Neal from the web of blankets he'd created without jolting him too much. The agent hated the way that as he moved the ex-cons right arm from underneath his torso, his muscles and hands were clenched.

Even in sleep, Neal could get no peace.

Once Peter had straightened his friend out into a position that looked more comfortable, he left with a heavy feeling settling in his gut.

He felt bad for leaving Neal alone inside his own head.

Who knew what monsters lay there?

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><p>The evidence had been a disappointment and a total waste of time but in a way, Peter was glad he wasn't at the house. He didn't know how to handle Neal any more. It had only been a day since Neal found out he wasn't getting his hearing back and that seemed more devastating every second, every moment where Peter had to stop and think about what was going to become of that young man.<p>

Hughes had taken one look at Agent Burke and voiced none of his concerns about Neal's future. That could wait.

"Hey, honey." Peter saidlater on that morning when he came back and went straight to the kitchen where he could hear the oven simmering and came up beside Elizabeth at the counter."Where's Neal?"

"In bed." Elle sighed as she peeled the potatoes with an expert hand.

"Asleep?" Peter hoped he was.

"He wasn't awake when I last checked on him; he was up all night, after all." Elizabeth stopped peeling the vegetables and let the tool clutter onto the work surface with a clang. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the counter edge when it all became too much, heart thudding, jaw aching. Neal was her friend, no, he was _more _than that.

So much more.

"Elle-"Peter dropped his coat at the sight of Elle's face breaking, her lips trembling as she fought and failed to lock everything away. But Peter was the one person she couldn't ever hide from.

"This isn't right, Peter!" She choked with a half-sob as her husband's arms secured around her. "He doesn't deserve this! Not Neal, he's not a bad person…..misguided, maybe but….."

"I know, Hun. But it's happened." Peter was just repeating what Hughes had said to him. Recycled words of reassurance that would have made perfect sense to anyone who wasn't close to Neal and didn't have to watch him, _feel _him suffer. "Neal, he's strong and we won't let this beat him. This could have been so much worse, Elizabeth. In a way, he's lucky. He'll see that someday."

"I know, he could be dead, but Peter-"Elle pushed the agent away slightly so she could look directly into his eyes. "You know what he's like. When he's scared, he pushes people away. What if we can't get him back?"

"We're not going to let him go, Elizabeth."

Neal had debated getting out of bed. He didn't see the point in it. It's not like he had anything to do or appearances to keep. Peter and Elizabeth had already seen him at his lowest point and there was no going back from that. He glanced over at the clock, the bright green numbers read _8:45_ and on any _normal_ Thursday, he'd have been sat at his desk, doing his job.

If only.

Neal threw back the blankets and edged slowly upwards because with the buzzing and the pain, the world seemed a little off balance like it was tilting on the edge of its axis. It didn't take him long to get dressed and the plain trousers and white shirt he wore felt ridiculous on a week day. He couldn't be bothered to shower; besides, he'd near enough rubbed his skin raw the previous night trying to get the smell of 'hospital' off him.

Yet it still lingered.

Neal deliberately didn't look at his reflection as he passed the mirror and began to head downstairs, lowering his head so that he could try to see through the bars of the banister in case Peter and Elizabeth were in the living room. He didn't want them to watch his shaky descent.

Only Satchmo sat on the rug and as Neal made it to the bottom of the stairs, he saw the two figures of his friends in the kitchen, wrapped around each other and the con man hung back.

Elizabeth was crying. He could see it on her face.

She shouldn't have been crying, not over _him_.

Neal dropped down onto the bottom step and ignored Satchmo as the dog nuzzled his hands because all he could think about was the damage he was causing, the pain he was inflicting by showing his own pain.

The con man decided there and then that no, he wasn't okay, but he could sure as hell pretend to be.

That was his job, right?

So Neal stood up straighter than he had in days, his chin held high and he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Neal Caffrey had become just another alias, another lie that he had live. So the young man called Satchmo over and he knew his voice was loud enough to alert the Burkes of his presence and he felt their eyes on his back as he rubbed the dogs belly and ruffled its ears like he always did.

Neal didn't spare a thought to the yelps of happiness coming from Satchmo he couldn't hear because he was too distracted by the fact that he could barely feel the soft, golden fur beneath his fingers.

It was like he couldn't feel _anything, _anymore.

Not a single thing in the world.


	8. Fake Smiles Don't Fool Me

The Whistler's Whistle

Fake Smiles Don't Fool Me

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><p><strong>AN:** This is actually half of one chapter, which I am struggling with, so I thought I'd split it up so I can at least say I posted something! It shouldn't be too long until the next chapter, which is a bit more eventful than this one, I think. I totally forgot to thanks my beta SherlockXHolmes23 in my last chapter (sorry about that!) so I'll thank her twice this time around. So yeah, next chapter in a few days hopefully (maybe). Please leave a review! Constructive critiscm encouraged, flames aren't welcome.

**Warning**: See previous chapters.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing here!

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><p><em>"The cruelest lies are often told in silence." - Adlai Stevenson<em>

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><p>At the sight of Neal at the bottom of the stairs, Elizabeth pulled away and went to dry her eyes without smudging her mascara and she nudged her husband with one hand.<p>

"Go." She whispered, momentarily forgetting that they didn't have to speak in hushed tones to hide what they were saying from Neal. "Ask him if he's hungry or…."

Peter nodded and went slowly up behind the young man. Once, he would have sighed at the way the ex-con fussed over his dog. Normally, he would have smiled at the way Satchmo basked in the attention Neal was happy to give but the way that Neal seemed to lean on the dog, his arms having wrapped around the animals flanks gave the appearance that he was forcing himself to care enough to pet the dog.

Forcing himself to be normal.

It wasn't going to fool anyone, least of all Peter Burke.

"Hey, Neal." Peter said as he sat down beside the other, wincing as his knees creaked. "You only just wake up?"

Neal shrugged meekly and gave the man a transparent smile in return.

"You hungry?" Peter pointed towards the kitchen and Neal followed his gaze. Elizabeth held up the cereal box quizzically and gestured to the fridge.

Neal caught on and while he wanted to refuse the food, he knew that wouldn't go down too well. He hadn't eaten since properly since last week besides and despite the torrent of feelings raging inside Neal, he didn't want to become malnourished or faint and give everyone another excuse to treat him like glass.

"A little bit."

Peter seemed pleased with the answer and he pulled him friend up off the floor with a helpful hand.

Neal picked at his breakfast but made an effort to eat some of the cereal before it turned into mush and while it didn't make him feel sick, it certainly wasn't satisfying.

The three of them spent Thursday playing scrabble (of which Neal won nearly every game) and by three that afternoon, Neal had fallen asleep on the couch while Elizabeth and Peter watched a movie. That was until Peters phone buzzed in his pocket and he frowned at the unknown number.

It was only going to be one person.

Mozzie.

The agent answered the phone and held it up to his ear, waiting for the muffled breathing on the other end to say something. He didn't have to wait long.

_Suit, I'm only ringing to enquire about Neal. June told me what happened. _

"Yeah, Mozzie…." Peter looked at Elle for help and then at the pale figure of the ex-con. "He's not really acting any..….I think he's trying to act normal for us."

"_You knew he was going to do that Suit." _There was a flap of activity and it sounded like Mozzie was in the subway. "_I'm not going to pretend that I've forgotten how he ended up like this, but I want to see him. Soon. I'm his friend, Suit and you can't keep him away from June or me-"_

"Keep you away? Why would I want to do that, Haversham?"

"_Because you can't admit that you don't know how to fix this! You don't have any idea how to handle Neal now that he's not…..look, I'll come around tomorrow."_

"Of course." Peter sighed, secretly glad that he'd managed to take the call without starting a large argument with the criminal. "Don't make it too late, Mozzie and don't….."

"_Don't __**what**__?"_

"I know you won't treat him any differently, but just make sure you don't. He doesn't handle that too well."

_Nice observation Suit. No wonder you're top Fed of the White Collar unit._

Then Mozzie hung up and Peter had to refrain from throwing the phone across the room.

That wasn't going to help matters.

Neal woke up around seven, just in time for dinner and he managed to eat all of it without actually tasting it. It was his favourite, once upon a time, but he barely registered his arm moving to put the food in his mouth.

He did it because that's what he was supposed to do, to convince them that he was _okay._

Neal pretended to cope well. He laughed when he was supposed to laugh.

He ate when he was meant to be hungry.

He tried to sleep even when insomnia suffocated him the seconds he allowed himself to close his eyes, but again, the silence and the darkness together was too much.

One, he could struggle through, paint on a fake smile and pretend it wasn't so bad.

But both? An eternity of quiet seemed like a daunting prospect to Neal.

One he didn't want to face, regardless of whether he was alone or not.

* * *

><p>Peter wasn't sure what had woke him up so he lay still, his arms around Elizabeth (who hadn't stirred) and waited nervously in the dark. He glanced at the clock and frowned at the fact it was only a few minutes past twelve and he waited a few tense seconds.<p>

Then he heard it; a quiet, muffled cry.

Neal.

Peter carefully unwrapped himself from around his wife and slipped out from beneath the covers before going into the hallway. The light didn't shine from beneath the guest room door, so Peter pushed it open and peered into the darkness, unsure what exactly he was suspecting to find.

What he found made that newly formed crack in the agent's heart widen and splinter outwards and in an intuitive movement, he had rushed forward towards the bed where Neal was.

The ex-con was at the foot of the bed, once again entangled in the bed sheets so tightly that the material restricted his movements and he struggled in his sleep. He twisted and rolled from side to side, his chest heaving, his legs kicking out in all directions and his movements were so frantic and heart-wrenchingly desperate that he must have wrenched his muscles.

But it was the cries that left Neal's lips that were the worst. Sharp, agonized whimpers that were just below his breath, almost as if he was subconsciously afraid of someone hearing his terror, his nightmare.

Peter clamped one hand down on Neal's ankle, the green-lighted anklet chafing the skin until it was red. With the other hand, he reached across Neal's writhing body and tried to pull one arm back down from where it snaked around the ex-cons neck.

Neal lashed out more viciously at the sudden presence and gave another silenced cry, his face contorted in a terrifyingly fearful grimace.

"Neal! Neal!" That was a useless approach but seeing the other man's state only worsen, Peter pulled his friend closer and ran his knuckles gently over Caffrey's ribcage.

It wouldn't have hurt too much, but it was sure as hell enough to wake Neal up and the young man shoved Peter backwards in the dark, his strength unparalleled as the adrenaline gushed through his veins. The agent, unsure whether Neal was awake or not, jumped up and flicked on the light and Neal froze in shock and fear and panic.

He blinked a few times, his movements shaky as he drew himself up onto his knees and looked up at the older man, who tried to brush away the bruises he could already feel forming.

"Peter." Neal's voice was cut, crisp, cold. "Peter….I'm sorry….I..."

Peter waved his apology away and went forward back to the bed where he sat gingerly, unsure whether it was best to leave Neal alone. But something made him stay.

Maybe it was the shining of Neal's eyes or the way his hair fell across his forehead in tufts like he'd dragged his fingers through it and pulled at it with everything he had. Either way, Neal didn't react when the older man sat unusually close.

Peter waited, watching Neal intently without directly staring at him.

But when Peter looked at Neal, he didn't see Neal Caffrey.

Not the _real _Neal George Caffrey. He was merely a husk, a skeleton of his former self and that self was gone.

Peter could only hope it wasn't gone forever.

No matter how hard he tried, the agent couldn't bury the feelings he had. Self-pity. He felt awful for feeling bad for himself, of all people, but he had lost his friend.

He couldn't talk to Neal, not like they used.

He missed Caffrey's sarcastic comments.

His wit.

His way of getting Peter to spill every secret he held to his chest.

His astounding innocence when it came to the cruel ways of the world.

His _smile._

Neal hadn't smiled, not once, in over a week. Well, he had. In the early evening, the three of them had sat down to watch one of those cheap comedies with Ben Stiller and with the subtitles on. Neal's lips lifted at the corners when he felt he was supposed to laugh and get the joke because that's what he would have done before.

What _they_ hoped he would do again.

Peter didn't believe that smile because it was as fake as they came.

As fake as the bonds Caffrey forged.

Brilliantly crafted, nearly identical except to an expert. An expert who knew every scratching of the ink and every flick of the letters and hue of the faded colours.

An expert like Peter, who noticed the way one side of Neal's real smile would reach slightly higher than the other, the way his eyes crinkled ever so slightly, darkening with everything the darkness _didn't _represent.

Fake smiles didn't fool Peter and Neal knew it.

He plastered one on anyway. The show had to go on.

"Nightmare. I'm fine." Neal said it with a loose shrug and a cavalier voice, "Don't worry about it."

"But I do worry, Neal. I always do."

Even though Neal didn't know exactly what his handler was saying, he knew enough from Peters pained expression that it was time to drop the lies for a moment.

"I was back there. When it happened. But-"Neal's broken up sentences were distracted and hard to follow because he refused to raise his voice, which would have made things easier. "But I was burning. Kate. She was burning…"

It always came back to Kate.

Neal let his eyes close, just to escape it all for as long as possible but no matter how quiet or how dark it was, that unsettling _knowing _still lingered. He couldn't escape.

He wasn't ever going to either and what made it worse was that he still couldn't accept it.

He still _hoped_, somewhere, beneath the pain and the silence and the rage, there was that spark of light.

But it was dwindling.

Its warmth was fading.

Peters hand was warm as it settled on the back of his neck, his touch light, hesitant and unsure and Neal didn't have the strength to shrug it off.

"I'm okay now. You can go back to bed." The ex-conman blinked and began to pull the duvets back up so he could feign sleep some more.

But Peter just settled on the edge of the bed and didn't move.

In fact, he didn't leave until he was sure that Neal Caffrey had fallen asleep.

It took over an hour.

* * *

><p>Mozzie came the next night as soon as the clock struck seven. He'd knocked dully without the usual rhythm in his movements and while he tried to act normal and smile with Elle (who the small man had admitted, was a dear friend) he didn't try to hide the cold callousness he felt towards Peter. While this angered the agent, he felt that in front of Neal, it was unfair to bring it up.<p>

Neal was sat in the kitchen drawing a small statue of the archangel Michael without ever looking down at his sketchpad and he didn't notice Mozzie's presence until the short man came up beside him, clutching a small books in his hands.

Neal glanced up at Mozzie, then behind at Elle and Peter who pretended not to watch.

"Hello, Moz."

"Neal."

They both refused to look at each other for a little while, partly because they knew they were being studied closely by the FBI agent and his wife. Neal stood up, somehow looking smaller to Mozzie than he usually did and he went to the back door and let himself out into the yard.

He sat down on the steps, arms resting on his knees and he made no motion to move or speak when Mozzie sat beside him. The shorter man deliberately kept his hands in front of his body, concealed from view from anyone who spied on them through the windows.

Mozzie had been through the motions inside his head over and over again until they were engraved into his brain, every argument, every plea ready to be thrown at Neal until the conman could see it.

He cared about Neal Caffrey more than anyone else in the world. Neal knew that, they both did. They were brothers in every sense of the word besides blood and Neal was the closest thing Moz had to family.

He _was_ family.

Which was why he couldn't just sit back, be idle and let the Suit decide how Neal was going to live the rest of his life. Confined. Patronized.

Mozzie knew many great con men, all of who had something that one might think would hold them back and yet in fact, it gave them strength. It gave them an edge.

But Mozzie understood that Neal had built a life for himself in New York, one that didn't remain standing on a foundation on lies and pillars of deceit. Mozzie couldn't accept that. Not now. No one else had thought of a good way to communicate with Neal, a fluent way and while Mozzie, an expert in code had a dozen up his crinkled sleeve, he could think of only one that felt natural enough to convince Neal.

He let his left hand rest on his thigh, fingers together and he began to tap. He did a quick tap, then two with a pause straight afterwards and it was obvious that Neal had caught his attention because the conman's eyes seemed to brighten with interest. Once he was sure the other was following, Mozzie continued with his usual speed and fluency, at a rate most people would be lost at.

But not Neal.

_We could leave._

"Leave?" Neal echoed softly, his voice was so soft that he could barely feel the vibrations of his throat as he spoke. "I can't."

Mozzie rolled his eyes exasperatedly as he backtracked and looked back at the house to check that no one was watching or listening to their exchange.

_Why?_

"You know why." Neal said after a couple of seconds, his eyes remaining firmly fixed on Mozzie's hand as it tapped against his leg. He remembered a similar conversation he and Mozzie had had before, far too many times. "Peter. Elizabeth. June."

Mozzie's face softened slightly and his fists uncurled at his sides.

_I know it will – _Mozzie paused, thinking, searching for the right word, but he couldn't find one_ - be hard._

"You think?"

_But Neal, don't you get it?_

Neal said nothing, his fingers twitching against his thigh, desperate to reply with some other sarcastic comment that did nothing for either of them. But he forced himself to talk, to feel a little bit more normal. Mozzie began to tap away again, faster this time, but Neal found it easy to keep up.

_The FBI are not going to care about what happens to some con._

That was true. Hughes might have, but the boss's boss, the big shots? Neal Caffrey wasn't worth a dime to them.

_They will throw you back in prison. You know they will. If we leave now, we can go anywhere._

"Who say's..." Neal cleared his throat awkwardly, on hand rubbing absently at the back of his neck "Prison?"

_Suit might not say it, but he's thinking it._

"He wouldn't."

_Want to test that theory? Stick around and you'll find out Neal._

Neal remained silent, Mozzie remained still, both caught up in their own thoughts, their own beliefs.

"Like where?"

_Some island in the south pacific where the tribes communicate with blinking. I don't know Neal, but it's better than prison. _

"Anything is better than prison."

Mozzie nodded eagerly at the robotic voice that sounded vaguely like Neal before thinking through all the things that could mean. _What do you want, Neal?_

The con man would've scoffed at such a stupid, such an obvious question that sounded like Mozzie didn't think at all. How could he say what he wanted? There was so much he still wanted, needed and so much he now couldn't have. A part of Neal, a rather significant part, wished he was still in prison and had never been released in Peter's custody.

At least then, he'd be all right.

Locked up, but not deaf. _Never _deaf.

But then he thought over everything the agent had done for him, everything he was trying to do. It wasn't enough for Neal and yet, it was all there was ever going to be.

Nothing would be enough for Neal Caffrey anymore.

"I want to hear again, Mozzie. That's all I'll ever want."


	9. Strength In What Remains Behind

**The Whistler's Whistle.**

**Strength In What Remains Behind.**

**A/N:** This chapter was the most difficult to write, so I hope it's okay. I want to thank AliWC for her amazing help and encouragement (without her, I probably wouldn't have posted this) and my beta, SherlockXHolmes23. If any of you think this is too angsty, don't worry because I have everything planned out and this isn't all this story's going to be. If you think it's moving to fast or too slow, I'm sorry, but I hope you will all bear with me. This is my first multi-chapter fic I've ever tried to write properly.

**Warnings**: Adult swearing and a lot of it. A lot of angsty-ness.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing here. The title of this chapter is from the extract of the poem at the bottom of the page.

* * *

><p>"<em>The darkest hour is just before the Dawn." - John Hurt, Merlin.<em>

* * *

><p>Neal didn't turn as Mozzie left and instead neatly folded the note he'd been given into a small square, before shoving it into his pocket. He knew the older man was trying to help and the conman felt the strange prickling feelings of guilt stab at his conscience for even considering what Mozzie said.<p>

But it made sense.

In another life, Neal would've left without a seconds thought to the people he left behind.

People were unreliable, they left, and they lied, _always_. Neal knew that because he was one of them. Honesty didn't come naturally to Caffrey anymore. It had done, once upon a time.

He remained sat on the steps in the yard, blinking slowly at the fading light that somehow still hurt his eyes and it occurred to Neal that being outside was more stifling than being in the house because there _should_ have been more noise, more sounds he was missing.

With a stuttered breath, he got to his feet and hurried back inside, pretending that the panic that clutched at his chest was exhaustion and _not_ the dark, foreboding and growing sense of fear.

Neal remained awake all that night, just sat at the end of the guest bed, staring of into the swirling and twisting shapes of the darkness. It was easier to think in silence, which was one thing Neal both embraced and hated. He could totally cut himself off from the world, the distractions but he also couldn't get back. It was like the world was moving on and he was stuck, never moving forward.

He wondered what he'd be doing that same night in a year's time. In prison? With Mozzie? Or maybe back at June's, living the life he loved. Neal knew that people had overcome worse things, much worse things and struggled through life with smiles and courage and strength.

But Neal didn't feel strong. Not anymore.

The conman was dressed beneath the blankets, so he only had to slip on his shoes and shrug on a coat before he was ready to leave the house. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't care whether walking around in the dark and the cold in his rather _vulnerable_ state was a smart move.

Somehow, some way, Neal managed to sneak downstairs and unlock the front door without waking Peter, Elizabeth or Satchmo, who had disappeared in a mount of blankets in his basket.

It was a lot colder than Neal anticipated but he zipped up his coat and stuck his hands in his pocket, watching in brief fascination at the cloud of icy air that puffed before his face.

He remembered when he was a child, he used to pretend he was a dragon.

Neal began to walk, remaining senses alert, ready, waiting and he found himself glancing behind him every few seconds, every shadow lurking with malicious intent.

The forger walked at a steady pace for about half an hour, ignoring the blare of the city lights as he left Brooklyn, his subconscious guiding his feet.

When he finally looked up, properly, Neal was stood in the centre of a street, still and the crowds were rather thin considering the hour but Neal had had panic attacks before and he could feel the painful, suffocating strangling of his throat and the clenching of his chest.

Then he ran all the way back to the Burke's.

They didn't wake when he let himself back inside and huddled back under the blankets of the guest bed, sweating, despite the lingering coldness.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Neal didn't get up when Elle and Peter did, so the agent peeked his head around the guest room door. He paused for a moment at the way Neal was dressed and tucked in on himself on top of the blankets, a pair of recently scuff sneakers on his feet. He hadn't taken of his coat and Peter frowned at the fact he didn't hear Neal leave at all during the night.<p>

Even when deaf, Neal still somehow managed to move silently, like a cat, aware of everything that could give him away.

Peter decided to use that time to make the call he'd been dreading and he dialed the number Dr. Miles Arnold had emailed him the previous day.

Dr Anna Reid was one of the best psychiatrists in the state and she was adapted to dealing with adults who'd suffered recent traumas, both physical and mental, and she had helped a few people before in Neal's situation. Arnold suggested Neal meet with her, so it was up to Agent Burke to ring the office.

_Hello, this the office of Dr Anna Reid, how may I help you?_

"Hello, I'm Peter Burke, I'm ringing on behalf of a friend who would like an appointment with Dr Reid." Peter gnawed at his lip as Elizabeth looked on from across the table, hand wrapped securely around her husband's.

_And this friends name is...?_

"Neal Caffrey."

Date of birth? Peter paused for a second. He didn't actually know Neal's _real_ age. He knew very little about the man's past and he wouldn't have been surprised in the slightest if 'Neal Caffrey' was just another alias, another lie.

"Uh...24th November, 1980."

_That's just for our records. Home telephone number and cell number of Mr. Caffrey? _

Peter just gave his own over.

"_Okay. We have a free appointment after another patient cancelled on this coming Friday at 1:30 PM. Otherwise it could be weeks until another available slot. Would this be okay?_

"That's be perfect, thank you."

_All booked, Mr. Burke. Dr Reid will see Neal then. Goodbye._

"Bye."

Peter sighed in relief and hung up, hating the way his heart thudded at an irregular pace.

"That wasn't so hard was it?"

"No." Peter wanted to pretend the hardest bit was over. "But now I have to convince Neal to actually _go_."

* * *

><p>Neal managed to keep up his façade in quite an impressive manner until the following Thursday, when Peter suggested he go to the office with him. Not to do work, just for a second while Peter spoke to Hughes about some old cold case before taking Neal out to lunch in central park with Elle.<p>

Peter wanted to get some normality back into his friend's life despite knowing how futile that was when Neal was in denial, which he most certainly buried in.

The conman shook his head faintly, eyebrows knotting ever so slightly as he thought deeply about why Peter really wanted him to go. The older man was treating Neal like he was a deck of cards balanced upon one and other in a make shift structure, built to most definitely fall.

Agent Burke had another agenda, Neal just had to work out what it was.

Surprisingly, it had only taken a few minutes for Peter to crack before he was reluctantly writing down his plans before handing the sheet of paper over to Neal.

_I've booked an appointment with Anna Reid, she's a __councilor__. She wants to meet you, she's helped a lot of people in your situation. I think it's time you thought about your future. She knows a lot about ASL, she gave me references to some of the top speech therapists-_

And that's when Neal stopped reading and looked back up at the other man.

"What is it you want from me, Peter?"

The agent looked stunned for a moment. He thought perhaps it was too soon for Neal to be thinking about these things, he needed time to grieve after all, but then again, the deeper he fell into this depression, the harder it would be to climb out.

Peter took the paper back and replied.

_I want you to get better, Neal._

"I'm not sick."

_You're not okay. That's normal after everything you've been through. This doctor, she can help with everything you're feeling._

Neal bit down on his lip until the familiar tang of blood sweetened his senses.

"You have...no idea how I feel."

Peter managed to stop the look of hurt flash across his features. His hand shook as he held the fountain pen, its blue ink smudging across his thumb.

_Then tell me._

Neal looked away in the distance, eyes void of anything that could tell Peter what he was thinking. He remained that way for a few minutes, brooding, before he shook his head weakly.

"I'm fine." Neal let his teeth flash in a grin. "Worse things have happened to people than this."

That was true. Logical. However, Peter also knew his friend was in no state to be thinking _logically._

"I think it's time I went back to June's." Neal had stopped up swiftly and began to head for the stairs while Peter tried to comprehend where that had come from. He was going to call after Neal, then stopped himself, noticing glumly at the way the con man kept his gaze fixed firmly on the floor as he walked up the stairs just so he technically couldn't see Peter's protests.

Plausible deniability.

* * *

><p>Neal packed up his belongings in a quick succession, never stopping long enough to truly think about what he was doing. He honestly didn't know what he doing, or what he was going to do. He had to hope he'd figure out, decide for himself <em>who<em> he was going to be.

The Neal Caffrey he'd invented for himself was gone and that hurt more than anything. There was no other name to be, no other man to create. Just him, whoever he was.

Neal stopped briefly after he'd zipped up the bag, his belongings thrown hastily inside and pulled out his phone. No new emails from Mozzie.

Neal wasn't surprised, he'd basically told the older man he wasn't going to run. Not yet, anyway. He had to know first. He had to know whether Peter would really let him be tossed back in prison. Neal's head said yes, of course he would, he wouldn't think twice about it. But his heart? As aching and as cold as it felt at times, it told Neal Peter wouldn't let that happen, not ever. That confusion, the feeling of the unknown just added to the pile of wayward emotions Neal couldn't control.

He wasn't sure how he was meant to feel. What should a man in his position be thinking?

There was a shadow of grief around Neal's person that hung heavy and he was drowning in it but it wasn't the sadness that held Neal under the surface of his life. It was something else.

Something darker.

Something worse.

Caffrey slung the bag back over his shoulder and began down the stairs, where the agent stood waiting, quietly.

"Thanks for..."Neal bit his lip in nervousness. "Everything. I appreciate it."

Peter smiled momentarily, before opening the front door and leading the way out to the Taurus.

Neal followed almost immediately, stuffing his hands in his pockets so he didn't have the watch his fists clenching.

No words were said as Neal let himself into June's mansion, Peter behind him and he dropped his bag at the sight of June walking quickly towards him, arms opened. Neal let himself be embraced tightly by the older woman, inhaling the familiar perfume of spices and old leather and lavender all at once. She touched his cheek lightly, her dark skin paling at the sight of the conman who'd somehow become her family.

She looked at Peter and he stared back.

Everything was conveyed in that one look, so June kissed Neal once and then let him past.

He took his bag again and headed towards his apartment, but the moment he stood in the only place he could called his own, it didn't feel like _his _anymore.

Everything was how he'd left it, right down to the last, heart breaking detail.

Life remained the same in that apartment, as if nothing had happened at all.

It would have been better, easier, to step into a place that was totally distant and far away from home. There, he could pretend to be anyone, the deaf man down the road, he could _lie._

He couldn't lie any more.

The rage Neal Caffrey felt for life at that moment was perhaps the most merciless thing he'd ever felt. It didn't let up. It didn't quiet. And it didn't stop.

It had been simmering ever since he'd been given that look and the two words that would change everything for that charming con man.

_I'm sorry._

From deep within Neal's blackened soul, there was a flash and it ignited with a hollow, blood red glow and before he fully comprehended what was happening, it had consumed him.

The rage had devoured everything that Neal stood for and he snapped.

He snapped like a blunt, rushed knife, all sharp edges and bared teeth and burning cheeks and clenched fists and broken nails and bleeding lips.

The second Peter had shut that door, Neal gave up and succumbed to that anger. It was the only think he could understand, the only thing that made sense.

He simply couldn't keep it hidden away any more.

Neal didn't feel Kate's bottle shatter and cut into the palms of his hands as he hurled the priceless and yet worthless _thing_ across the room, stumbling with it and impacted the window pane.

He didn't notice the shavings of glass in his feet or the chips of the window in his neck or the way his nails tore into his palms, leaving tiny pink crescent moons upon the skin.

A part of Neal knew that Peter would have heard that, but the younger man didn't care. He couldn't focus on keeping his composure, his dignity. What did it matter when everything else was ruined?

Neal was screaming. Both inside his head and from deep within his aching lungs and he was too preoccupied to notice the bewildered Peter Burke watch as one arm jerked out and swept an abandoned meal from the table and clattered to the floor in a hush.

Neal was too far gone for that.

Peter was shouting and Neal was shrieking, at himself, at the man with a switch that destroyed everything, at the man in the heavens who didn't give a fucking damn.

It wasn't fair.

It just wasn't _fair._

Neal's throat was raw. Skinned but he kept on screaming and he knew that Peter was crying, begging him to stop, but he _couldn't._

"This shouldn't be happening! I don't deserve this. What the fuck have I ever done to deserve all this?"

It infuriated Neal because no matter how loud he cried or how much he smashed, he still couldn't hear it.

It was still _fucking_ silent.

"It's not supposed to be like this!"

Through Neal's shrieking, Peter couldn't make out many words but all he knew was that Neal Caffrey had reached that point in oblivion where everything all became lost as one and he couldn't distinguish himself from what remained behind.. More than anything, Peter wanted to say something to make it all right again, but there was nothing to say.

No words could heal Neal.

There was no reason for any of it, no _point_ in any of it.

Despite the futility of it, Peter called his consultants name, pleaded with him to calm down and even if Neal could have heard it, he was too ravaged to listen.

"Neal! You're hurting yourself! Please stop this!"

Neal was bleeding.

"It's okay! It's going to be okay!"

It wasn't.

"Just stop…..please…..just stop."

Neal seemed to have finally noticed what he'd done and he staggered, the force of his ravaged existence hitting him with more strength than anything Neal had ever felt before.

The agent saw Neal's broken expression, the way his face crumpled, his quaking body too lost to hold itself up and he went forward and wrapped himself around the younger man's torso, dragging Neal into his arms and together, as one, they sank down onto the cold, hard floor.

That was all it took for Neal Caffrey to truly collapse and fall from grace.

Then he was crying. Sobbing. _Wailing_ into Peter's chest as he hammered his fists against the man and scratched at the wood flooring so violently, his nails chipped and oozed red. Peter found himself weeping in a way he hadn't for many years and he was sure that Neal hadn't ever fallen into grief quite like he did that night.

Peter just held the young man in his arms in a secure embrace, holding onto to him so tightly that his muscles ached and he knew he was bruised but he let Neal grasp fistfuls of his shirt until it ripped. He didn't have the strength or the heart to stop it.

Neal's breath hitched and he choked as his body quaked and trembled with fierce sobs, his crystal tears trailing down his face and mixing with the blood and sweat that lay there already, creating this illusion of his carefully sculpted mask getting washed away in the rain.

He howled into the older man, cursing the world and the cards fate had dealt him and it was all _so_ much worse because without being able to hear himself, truly experience the damage he'd done, Neal couldn't move on and he couldn't stop _crying_.

Peter rubbed his back, soft circular motions and he pressed his lips to the top of Neal's head in a way that soothed Elle when she was hurting. But Elle had never fallen apart in quite the same way.

"Shhh…Neal…I'm here…" Peter had the other cradled in his lap, his own legs folded beneath the two of them at an awkward angle. "It's okay. It's all okay…"

"It's not fair Peter…..I don't want to be like this." He kept repeating the same devastating words over and over again, but he still didn't quiet. "I don't think I can live like this."

Peter, through his watery vision, was overwhelmed at the pure, unblemished pain that was written across his friend's crumpled face, laced into every jagged movement, ravaging his soul.

Neal felt so many things and Peter couldn't for the life of him understand how Neal was really feeling. It wasn't just anger. He supposed that Neal didn't really know either.

But no matter how tight the older man held Neal, no matter how many times he shushed him, Neal just kept on crying.

Because that was all he could think to do.

But it wasn't _just _that.

Crying was a release, the bough breaking, the floodgates opening and everything he'd been feeling over the past weeks of horror, all these garish and fierce flashes of emotion that'd weighed him down, like the roots of an oak hidden within the ground, _paused._

For a fraction of a second, Neal could really _feel._

He could feel the sadness and the grief, the anger and the hatred and the blind hope and the spark of wonder that came with the silence. He could sift through these emotions like the pages of a book. They were no longer knotted and tangled together in one flimsy web of pain, they were free and fading and then brightening again.

Neal Caffrey didn't feel quite so lost any more. He just couldn't understand why.

Perhaps it was the way he could see the dove perched on the coffee table outside, its pure white feathers sparkling with their softness in the flickering afternoon light. Maybe it was the way Peter's arms enclosed him, engulfed him with their warm and their strength and Neal didn't have to hold himself up any more. It could have been the way the other man brushed his fingers through Neal's hair, lightly, faintly and a hundred times gentler that one would think necessary.

But maybe it was the fact that Neal _knew._

He knew that he wasn't alone. He believed that one day he would stop falling, stop spinning long enough to truly look at his life and Peter would be there to catch him.

Peter Burke wouldn't let him fall alone in the depths of despair the conman found himself lost in. Neither would Mozzie, or Elle, June or Jones or even Diana.

For the briefest and yet most beautiful moment, Neal felt loved.

If he died tomorrow, or the next day, then someone would care.

And if he lived and breathed and tried to stand tall, someone would steady him when things got rough and pick him back up when he gave in.

Hearing or not, at that moment, as the dove fluttered away from its perch in a flash of white, that was all Neal had to cling on to.

And just for a little while, perhaps that was all he really needed.

* * *

><p>"<em>What though the radiance which was once so bright<em>

_Be now for ever taken from my sight,_

_Though nothing can bring back the hour_

_Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;_

_We will grieve not, rather find_

_Strength in what remains behind."_

_-William Wordsworth_


End file.
